


Plus One

by Anonymous



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Angst with a Happy Ending, Insecurity, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mild Smut, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's tough work being Peter Parker. Particularly when you're a broke, masked vigilante and you're dating a world-renowned billionaire.Or when the media can't tell if you're a hero or a villain, despite years spent cleaning the streets, and your boss at your day job hates you.Or when you're not sure that the thing you're doing with said renowned billionaireisactually dating.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 368
Collections: Anonymous





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarletmanuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/gifts).



> Originally written for the 2019 Starker Secret Santa, reworked.

The mission had been planned for weeks.

Every detail had been meticulously crafted, outlined down to the minute. Endless contingencies had been crafted for every possible outcome. It was one of the fringe benefits of having a quiet period of intergalactic threats threatening the safety of humanity - when there was none, there was time and resources devoted to taking down the standard, run-of-the-mill criminals.

Like drug dealers and thieves and muggers. Street crime. And the unfriendly, underworld lords, like Wilson Fisk.

Which led Peter to this: squatting in the air vents above Wilson Fisks' Hells Kitchen office, watching the man play Solitaire on Windows XP for a straight, solid hour.

This was not part of the plan. There was nothing in the briefings about watching Fisk refresh his electronic card deck every time he was on the brink of losing yet another round, because it was meant to be a simple in-and-out mission.

But by now Peter's elbows and knees were beginning to ache against the metal. It smelled like droppings and dust, even through the mask. And he mentally played the Mission Impossible theme song to initially pump himself up but now he couldn't _stop_ hearing it. It was the worst.

The plan was for Tony to swoop in and create a distraction that would divert both Fisk and his security to another location long enough for Peter to sneak in and gather evidence of his crimes - something the feds have failed to produce up until this point - and hand it over to law enforcement. It was out of Avengers jurisdiction really. Well, out of their interest, if he was completely honest, because who was Kingpin against threats to the universe? But it wasn't out of Peter's.

This was Peter's wheelhouse, and Avenger or not, Peter wasn't about to let this one be mishandled. Fisk's corruption bled out all the way into his neighborhood - when he'd seen one of Fisks' men at Delmar's demanding compensation for their 'protection' Peter couldn't let it stand, not to good people -- and he wasn't above enlisting his former mentor for help to take the culprit down. 

If only he'd been on schedule.

"Mr. Stark," Peter hissed into the com, careful to keep his voice down as he peers through the vents. Fisk doesn't look up. "An ETA on your location, _please_ , sir. We have rats."

"Rats," Tonys voice comes in through his earpiece. "Like, Fisks men? Are you in danger, Pete?"

"No," Peter whispers, spine crawling as the vents echo with the scratch of scurrying. "As in _actual_ rats. Like as in an actual rodent just crawled over my back, oh god, it's on me -- look, are you anywhere close because I'm getting kind of claustrophobic here, Mr. Stark --"

"Calm down, Itsy Bitsy. I'll be there in a few minutes, right on time."

The relief is profound when Fisk gets the call from security nearly ten minutes later, Peter's hearing picking up a report that Tony Stark had shown up in the lobby. As predicted, Fisk brusquely orders all security personnel to be on alert and to quote, _flank him in case he tries anything funny_. Peter had thought Tony would resort to a diversion aiming towards the flashy and ostentatious, like an explosion, but he has to admit that the oddity of Iron Mans alter-ego showing up at Fisk headquarters would be just as jarring.

As Fisk leaves, grumbling to himself, he makes sure to lock all of his drawers, pocketing the key and adding an extra layer of difficulty for the time sensitive mission.

"Goddammit," Peter mutters, lowering himself out of the vent on a web, wincing as his joints creak and something squeaks near his ear. 

It's showtime.

—-

On his commute to work two days later, swaying with the motion of the train, Peter watches a clip on his phone. It's an MSNBC news segment thats trending on YouTube.

"Mr. Stark," a reporter yells off-screen. Tony Stark emerges from the Lincoln Centre, the winter wind billowing the the tails of his scarf away from his neck. Camera flashes from paparazzi and onlookers alike illuminate his face in brilliant white. The reporter follows, thrusting their network-issued microphone towards the man. "Mr Stark, have you heard the news of Wilson Fisks' arrest?"

"Sure have," Tony replies on camera, continuing his pace towards his car, waving at civilians on the street who have their phones out taking pictures of him. "Couldn't have happened to a better guy."

The footage shakes as the reporter hurries to catch up with him, the cameraman following suit. "What do you say to the rumours that you were involved? You were seen entering Fisk headquarters hours before police made the arrest."

Tony pauses, one hand on the roof of his car, assessing the reporter through rose-tinted glasses. "Nonsense, I was there to address my concerns about the danger posed by his business practices. I mean, have you seen those construction sites? I've seen two-year olds build more structurally sound Lego. They were a threat to public safety. You can quote me on that. Goodnight."

"So your appearance wasn't related to --"

"Look," Tony interrupts, opening the driver-side door. "Do your best impression of a good journalist and review the footage. While I appreciate the belief that I can take down a crime-lord by appearance alone - I'd be happy to take credit for it - but I'm sure you will find this was a result of good, investigative police work. Goodnight."

With that he climbs in and shuts the door behind him. The reporter huffs, raising her voice and knocking on his tinted window with gloved fingers. Whatever she has to say gets lost as Tony turns up his speakers, Black Sabbath audible even from outside the vehicle.

"Mr. Stark," she tries, but it's clear he doesn't hear her beyond the screech of guitar. "Mr. Stark -- what do you have to say about the security footage found at Wilson Fisks' office? Is Spider-Man an accomplice or a hero, your comment, please?"

Peter sighs. He should have stuck to cat videos.

—-

Tony Stark has a horrible sense of timing. 

It’s as if, when creating man, God had a plethora of functional internal clocks that ran dry at the exact moment that he was giving life to Tony, and then said _whoops_ , let me check out the back. Peter's sure he read somewhere that Tony even came out of the womb later than expected.

It seemed nothing could change Tony's ineptitude. More than once has Peter read a headline post-snap that read: _Tony Stark late to his own award ceremony!_

Peter wishes that it were hyperbole. But if there was one thing he could say categorically of his former mentor, it was this: despite his smarts Tony Stark was poor at keeping a schedule.

Like when he failed to notice that he’d been in the lab for three days straight, missing board meetings and lunch-dates or briefings. Or, when he’d drunkenly stumbled into a party in the Avengers common room one night, not realising it was Hills birthday despite the streamers and cake adorning the area. Misreading the room, Tony had raised his glass, slurring a heartfelt “ _Mazeltov_!” before staggering off to his wing, leaving the occupants stunned and speechless.

Or the memorable, however awkward occasion, Tony announced his and Peppers divorce as everyone was exchanging gifts on Christmas morning.

“For fucks sake, Tony,” Rhodey had said, mid-unwrapping Cap's knitted socks.

Sure, Tony’s inability to parse appropriateness with whatever was going on at the time soured a few events, it rubbed some people the wrong way. And yeah, it meant that Tony forgot some birthdays and conferences or disrupted a meeting or two. That's just how Tony operated, Peter still never faulted him for it.

Well, not much.

Interrupting May’s fiftieth birthday to urgently request Peter’s presence in the lab _was_ a little crude. But once he'd registered the the panic in Tony’s voicemail, Peter had gone to him, apologizing profusely to his aunt as he slipped out the kitchen window in his suit, rebounding off the fire escape and webbed his way over to Karen's pinpoint at Stark Tower.

Heart pounding, Peter had expected to witness a mutant monster troll wreaking havoc, maybe an alien threat or another Accords-type situation -- what he found instead was his ass-up on the lab floor, wriggling around on the spot.

Upon Peter's arrival Tony had sighed, deeply relieved, explaining without a shred of shame that his hand was caught between the lab drainage grates.

“ _This_ is your emergency?” Peter had asked in disbelief, watching Tony’s knees slide around the concrete. "How did you even get stuck?"

“I dropped a screw,” Tony said, pulling uselessly at his wrist.

“You made me leave May’s birthday dinner for this. A screw.”

“You left the what now?” Tony squirmed impatiently on the ground. “You know what, address that later. Can we hurry this up? My knees are not designed for this.”

“Why didn’t you summon a bot or a suit?”

A look of incredulity had been directed his way before Tony tugged at his hand again. “And risk getting blown up? Do I look like a fool? You know what, don't answer that, okay, quick now - I think my circulation is getting cut off. I lost feeling in my fingers while you were bellyaching.”

Even then, frustrated, Peter took it in stride, irritation soothed by the honour that Tony would trust him with this first over anyone else. Or maybe he was the only sucker Tony knew. Semantics.

So Tony’s propensity for expediency and overall absentmindedness made things a little awkward sometimes. And his divorce from an appropriate, regular schedule meant that it was kind of hard to make and keep arrangements with him too. But it wasn’t by far the man’s worst quality and didn’t supersede all of his otherwise favourable traits.

Like the time when Tony said he’d be at a meeting for a Stark Industries merger, but was instead at Peter’s college graduation, hands proudly squeezing Peter’s shoulders instead of shaking hands with his new associates. It was a little embarrassing have his classmates point phones and fingers and have his professors fawn, but it made Peter feel special when Tony only had eyes for him.

He'll never forget the warm hug Tony gave him, how his beard brushed Peters ear when he said, _I'm so proud of you, Pete_.

Tony was not a perfect man by any measure. But he made up for it where it counted.

Sometimes too much.

—-

The attendance at Peter’s graduation was warmly welcomed. So was the party held at the tower afterwards, all on-world Avengers in attendance, music and alcohol aplenty. Having an eighteen-page contract offering a full-time, paid position at Stark Industries thrust into his hands wasn't as heartwarming as his fifteen year old self thought it would be.

“What’s that face? Gonna need you to explain that one,” Tony had asked, referring to the Peter’s prolonged look of abject horror. He could sense the older mans bewilderment as longer Peter continued to open and close his mouth, failing to form words.

Peter blinked at Tony.

Tony blinked back.

“You -- you can’t offer a first-year graduate a salary of two-hundred and fifty thousand,” Peter had finally uttered, perturbed, skimming over the legalese with growing alarm. “Mr. Stark, _no_.”

“Uh, Mr. Stark, _yes_ ,” Tony had frowned, snatching the contract back. The billionaire was noticeably confused as he flicked through the pages, creasing them in his haste. “What? I don’t get it. Is it too low? Should I raise it? Name a fair price, kid, it’s yours.”

“Oh my god,” Peter had muttered. He'd tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, searching heavenwards for a way to delicately articulate his gratitude along with everything that was wrong with this situation.

The attitude hadn't escaped Tony's attention. The contract was swiftly rolled up into a tight scroll and pointed in his direction accusingly.

“Oh my god, what? What's with the 'oh my god'.”

“One,” Peter held a finger up, pressing it to his own mouth and swiping it across his lips in a request for his mentors silence. “One - I can’t even begin to tell you how out of touch you are.”

“I beg your pardon, I am not out of touch -–”

“ -- You’re out of touch and _two_ , I’ve already accepted a job offer like, three months ago.”

Tony had scoffed, scooting his stool closer on it’s squeaking wheels to swat Peter on the head with his rolled-up contract. “Okay, so, let me fix it for you real quick - you tell them 'thank you for the offer, but something better came along'.” He brandished the contract at Peter. "This is something better."

It had nearly broken his heart to do it, to dampen the self-assuredness in Tony's big brown eyes, but Peter had taken a deep breath and said, “Tony, I say this with the utmost love and appreciation: I don’t want to work for Stark Industries.”

“You what,” Tony glided backwards on the wheels of his stool in what Peter can only describe as an offended recoil. Shrugging, he'd hooked his foot on the stool and wheeled him back him.

“Don’t get me wrong," Peter assured, quietly and confidently, knocking their ankles together. He chances a glance at Tony, smiling crookedly. Like he'd hoped, it has the intended effect, the twist of Tony's lips seemed more inquisitive than querulous. "I’d love to work for you - _with_ you - but I gotta - y’know. I gotta do things myself, Mr. Stark.”

“Yourself,” Tony repeated.

“Yeah. I have know the difference between what I’ve earned and I’ve been given, y’know? This way I know it was all me.”

At this Tony had tilted his head back and sighed, eyes closing slowly like he was silently praying. When he'd had his moment and looked back at Peter he didn't seem mad. Disappointed but, there was something there, a steely note behind his smile that Peter might have dared to call respect.

“You’re a hard man to crack, Mr. Parker,” Tony had conceded, ordering DUM-E to transport the shredder over. Holding the contract above the whirring device, DUM-E chirped delightedly, nearly quivering in dutiful excitement. “Last chance. Yes or no?”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm honoured, Mr. Stark,” Peter had grinned, warmed and adequately flattered. A little exhilarated too; there was once a time when he thought Tony could convince him to do anything, nothing was off the table, the man could ask anything and Peter would say yes without query. So, he wasn't yes to saying no and liking the taste of it. “Thank you, but no.”

Maybe Peter had imagined it, but Tony seemed proud as the sheets of paper became ribbons.

—-

Once, MJ had asked him if Tony said _jump_ , if Peter would respond with _how high_.

He'd applied almost everywhere with the exception of Stark Industries, but in the end Peter had joined the ranks of Oscorp. 

Getting that email confirming his position had been the most proud Peter had been of himself since graduating high school. That, there, that email was proof that he was capable, wanted for himself. And if Peter had thought Tony would be mad at learning that he’d be working for Stark Industries direct competitor, then well, he was right.

Tony was not pleased.

“ _This_ was your preferred offer?” the man had demanded, yanking the lanyard around Peter’s neck, mouth agape in umbrage. The fob proudly bore his blurry portrait, jaw slack and eyes squinting against the camera flash, Oscorp's logo printed onto it like a brand.

If it didn’t make Peter feel a little bit vindictive, then it was his business.

How high indeed.

—-

It’s not to say that Peter defied Tony’s wishes to be deliberately spiteful.

But as Peter gained more confidence in himself, knowing where he began and ended, it became a game of chase he couldn't stop. As he started getting older and wiser, the desire to be truly self-made became more urgent, wanting to have a true understanding of who he was without interference, and what it looked like to stand up on his own. 

But sometimes if what Tony wanted happened to coincide with his own wishes, then he was okay with it. A new spider-suit. A European honeymoon for Happy and May.

Sometimes, it really worked out to his benefit.

—-

The union of Peter’s wishful thinking and Tony’s ill-timing occurred when, strangely enough, Peter had finally decided to move on. At twenty-three he decided it was probably time to think about reallocating his affections to other people. People who weren't Tony.

Y'know, to someone who might conceivably reciprocate them.

Tony had been divorced from Pepper for over a year. Flying in the face of his own predictions - and the predictions of many a media outlet - Tony hadn't immediately rushed into dating anyone else. He wasn't photographed with a laundry list of beautiful people. There wasn't a rotating roster of dates and flings to say _no comment_ to. Nothing and nobody.

Peter thought Tony would move on in one of two ways: fuck the entire of Manhattan or go for just one. The person that came after Pepper Potts, as if anyone could. But he didn't even seem all that heartbroken. The first month after the split Tony carried an air of melancholy, drinking himself silly, but after that he seemed great. 

It's not that Peter thought that Tony would come knocking at his door, sweep him in his arms and profess his undying love. But Peter also knew that he didn't imagine the way Tony would stare at him sometimes, the way his hand rested a little too low on Peter's lower back as they passed each other. How sometimes, after a couple of drinks, Tony's eyes would stare at Peter's lips for a breathe too long.

Or how _Mr. Stark_ became _Tony_ over time. Or how _Peter_ on the rare occasion became _sweetheart_ with more time spent together, mostly in late nights over beer and dissecting alien tech, building things just for fun as the nights became blurry and turned into mornings. 

But Peter thought, yeah - if there was ever going to be anything between them it would be at that moment, when they were both single and still enjoyed each others company. It seemed like he held his breath for weeks, waiting for a casual touch to linger into a squeeze, something he could read into as a marked change f - but a month went by, then six months, and then an entire year. Nothing happened.

When his heart didn't stop feeling perpetually heavy, he knew it was time to snap out of it. As much as it hurt - and it did, to stop his heart from reaching to Tony's felt like severing a part of him. But, he reasoned, whether holding on or moving on, it was going to ache; it didn't serve him to harbour a love that wasn't going to be returned, not to the detriment of his own growth.

Time to move on and up and go put himself out there. Affection, even unrequited, wasn't supposed to wear you down, Peter thought. It shouldn't be this hard to love someone.

And so with the fervent support and encouragement from his friends, Peter agreed to put himself out there. He sat uneasily while Ned and MJ set up dating apps for him while he sat, red-faced, groaning uncomfortably as they orated his profile back to him.

Embarrassingly enough, there wasn’t much to say about him: _Dude from Queens, values friends and family. Secretive. Prone to disappearing at a moments notice and works a lot. You free an hour a week? Let’s date!_

It wasn't that Peter hadn't dated other people. He had. MJ in high school. Johnny in college. Odd dates here and there. Sober and boring ones, drunken and regrettable ones. It was worthwhile to experiment, to find out what he liked and who he liked it with. Already having a vague inkling, it was nice to have it verified that casual sex wasn't really his thing. Even the one-night stands were less about getting fucked than they were aborted, failed attempts at finding romance.

But nothing ever felt like love. Never the forever kind.

Also, it was, like, really hard to maintain a normal relationship when the other half didn't know that you swung around the city at night fighting crime.

With his new outlook on his love life, Peter had started to let himself really _look_. He kept numbers scrawled on receipts from shy baristas and even called some of them. It did his social life extraordinary favours, letting men and women alike buy him drinks in dimly-lit bars, sharing a milkshake with the cute guy from the bookstore near his apartment, waving at cute guys who followed his path on his evening run.

In his efforts, Peter had even scored a date with one of his Oscorp co-workers, Harry.

He, out of everyone else had seemed the most promising. A swoon-worthy smile, the handsome son of the CEO, Harry was witty as hell. And smart. Definitely a hot-shit-and-he-knew-it kind of guy.

It might turn someone else off but, frankly, that was Peter’s flavour profile.

Ingredient number one: reciprocation. Not only was Harry more attainable, more May-approved, but he'd had been actively trying to woo Peter for weeks. He'd 'coincidentally' meet Peter at at the employee’s break room at the same time. He'd get to work before Peter and leave him cute, handwritten notes at his workstation like _hey pete, hope your day is as great as you_.

When Peter hadn’t immediately turned him down Harry had begun bringing him coffee each morning - and finally, with a nervous dip of his chin, asking him to have a drink with him. Harry was all doe-eyes and effortless charm, Peter could see how he could easily fall. So he’d said yes.

But of course the universe could never align its cosmic plans with Peter’s. Gotta give the Parker Luck its exercise.

The day of his date with Harry there had been a bank robbery in Flushing. An honest-to-god _bank robbery_ in this modern day _._ Of course no contemporary heist would be complete without beefy men clad in black and balaclavas, waving guns around and terrorising civilians who were probably only there to close their account or something, because who went to banks these days? Who robbed them?

Anyway.

Lowering into the main chamber from an air vent, Peter had landed silently amongst the thieves.

"Uh, hey guys," he waved. "Don't know if you've heard, but cyber crime involves significantly less hostages. I love this whole vintage this you have going on, but maybe try Bitcoin next time? You can work from home!"

Perhaps surprising the crooks wasn't the wisest course of action, it did lead to getting shot at, bullets flying all over the place. But all men and their firearms had been webbed without any injury to himself or any of the hostages. And yeah, he _may_ have gotten cocky and taken a crowbar to the ribs once or twice in the process, but it was fine.

Okay, yeah, he definitely got cocky. Not just because he took a hit or two, but because he absolutely missed the watchman who came in moments after and ended up shooting Peter in the shoulder.

That was less fine.

The injury registered in the suit. Karen politely informed Peter that he had sustained a wound that wasn't life-threatening, y'know, in case he missed it. However, this also led to Karen being a nasty little snitch who reported it to FRIDAY -- which then led to FRIDAY telling Tony and honestly, the optics of Iron Man dropping by to bridal carry him out of the bank when all the action was over was _so_ unnecessary.

A little woozy from the blood-loss, Peter didn't complain when, back at the tower, he was led to the medbay and de-suited so he could be patched up. Throughout, Tony’s voice was steady as he cleaned up Peter’s wound, working as gentle and delicately as Peter suspects he could muster. Even though he worked behind him, Peter could tell that his hands were shaking.

The brave cadence of Tony’s voice, quick like a whip at times, smooth like a slither at others, lulled Peter into a relaxed state, placid under his touch, even as Tony retrieved the bullet from his shoulder. And then those damn butterflies were back, beating around his belly.

“There you go, bugs,” Tony finished bandaging him up, calloused fingers squeezing Peters bare shoulder, lingering just a second. “Brand new.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Peter had said, rotating his arm gingerly, testing his range-of-motion. It throbbed, but it would fully heal soon enough. “I owe you.”

The other waved him off, throwing a spare set of scrubs back at him,. “Nonsense, you owe me nothing. Well, unless you feel like owing an old man some pizza and a night watching some terrible reality television. What's good these days, America's Next Top Housewife or whatever it is, hmm?”

“Oh,” Peter winced. “…I have a date tonight, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Can I get a raincheck?”

“A date,” Tony had repeated, clearing his throat, hands in thrust into pant-pockets. “Wow. That’s -- wow. That's great. Good for you, kid. Anyone I know?”

Not waiting for Peter's answer, Tony paced around the med-bay, piling the scalpels and curved forceps into the kidney dish with a clang. There's a _creak-squick_ of stretching latex as Tony pulls his gloves off and dunks them into a bin at the opposite wall.

“Just some guy from work, a scientist. He’s very... normal.”

Tony had snorted at that, his amusement just audible over the padding of his sneakers against the linoleum. "Well, you could probably use some of that normality. You still got time to get there?”

“Ah crap, I’m gonna be late,” Peter cursed, looking at the time and then down at himself. “Do you mind if I use -–”

“All yours.”

Thanking Tony, Peter had sped out of the medbay, using some of his superhuman speed to get into the shower and make himself smell like something that wasn't gunpowder or copper. Making use of his makeshift second bedroom at the tower, Peter had dressed up nice, gelled his hair back, rocking back and forth on his feet in nervous anticipation of his date - _the_ date. With a sprinkle of luck maybe Peter wouldn't completely mess this up.

Mouth dry from adrenaline and and nerves, he'd stopped by the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of water before leaving.

Naturally, that was when Tony had kissed him.

“You _hate_ normal,” Tony had said, hands cupping Peter's face. His thumbs stroked Peter's cheeks as he leaned in and kissed him again, the hard counter digging into Peter's spine with the force of it.

“I -- what?” Peter mumbled against the older man’s lips, confused. When Tony pulls back there is something dark and desperate in his eyes, big and brown and nothing like Harry's.

“That's not you. You shouldn’t go on a date with that guy,” Tony said, cupping Peter’s face gently with calloused hands in perfect counterpoint to how hard he’d pushed him against the kitchen counter. “You should come to bed. With me.”

“Yeah,” Peter had agreed, unable to think of anything else. “Okay.”

Tony's arms snaked around his waist, pulling them flush together

—-

With tears pressed into the crook of his elbow, mouth suspended open, Tony had taught him everything he wasn’t missing out on that night.

On all fours, Tony pounding into him from behind, heat built steadily in his gut as Tony took a brutal pace inside him, reacting perfectly every time Peter wept a broken _harder_ , _more_. Pleasure dulled the pain in his shoulder. The grip of Tony’s hands on his hips added to the rapture, how one hand, strong and practiced, would slide down the slope of Peter's spine, crossing the plane of his skin to grip his nape. When Tony squeezed, Peter couldn’t help the one intrusive, hysterical thought of being caught in Tony’s web.

After, they'd both stared up at the ceiling, catching their breath and, at least in Peters case, wondering if that really just happened. He felt utterly boneless, floaty, orgasm ripped out of him, pleasure amplified by the salty-sweet words Tony had whispered and the soft soothing shushes as he was coming and coming down. Tony had fucked all good sense out of him.

That was the excuse he was going with for, guiltily texting Harry two hours after their date was supposed to begin.

**> Nw. I understand. hope everything’s okay???**

Peter bit his lip.

_< i’m so sorry, wish i could have told you sooner. something came up._

Tony had hummed amusedly, reading the text over his shoulder. “No kidding.”

_< i’m really sorry. talk Monday?_

Peter took a moment to feel terrible, ashamed when Harry didn’t immediately respond. But the feeling was easy, too easy to forget, curled up against Tony’s naked torso, ass pleasantly sore. Distracted by the scratch of chest hair, Peter discarded his phone to trail lazy kisses down Tony's scarred sternum, enjoying the hitches in breath while Peter mouthed at the bumpy terrain of skin. 

“This was nice,” Peter said later, nose buried in Tony’s throat. It was. It was everything he'd ever wanted.

Humming agreeably, Tony had stroked the curve of his spine with patient, attentive strokes, lulling him into a dreamless sleep.

—-

The next morning Tony had greeted him with lukewarm coffee and burned toast and asked if Peter wanted to do this again sometime. Maybe with dinner beforehand.

Tony didn't call it a date and Peter was too nervous of being dismissed to ask if it was.

He had, however, accepted the culinary offerings and said yes to doing this again. Whatever this was. 

—-

Someone had managed to get a shot or two of Spider-Man entering the bank from the roof.

It circulated social-media and all of the cable news shows that Peter doesn't watch. The Bugle printed in a matter of minutes with the headline: _Spider-Crook Terrorises Local Bank! Caught at the scene! Further evidence of affiliation with Fisk empire?_

They'd barely left bed all weekend, the sheets were in a state that not even an industrial cleaner could remedy. Tony had tutted when he'd glanced over where Peter was scrolling through his phone, post-coitus.

"Oh, hey, you're one of us now," Tony kissed his bare shoulder. "Take it with a grain of salt, sweetheart. It will be old news tomorrow, trust me."

Peter hums in half-hearted agreement. It doesn't bother him, per se, he's used to bad press. He's familiar with the cycle after being a regular feature for nearly a decade but still, to this day, fails to understand the hatred and malcontent it takes to produce a piece like this.

He reads on, trying to find a line, a quote that would redeem just a glimmer of humanity, but as he continues scanning the article, the further he gets lost in it. Tony seems to take that as a challenge to distract Peter, kissing a trail along his shoulder and up his neck, slow and wet, sucking ever so lightly along the sensitive column of his throat, teeth grazing the skin.

Peter squirms, skin alight at the touch, toes curling into the sheets. He tries to bat the older man away in a pale imitation of disinterest, but it only seems to double the efforts to draw him away from his phone. 

"W-wait, I'm trying to --"

"Shh, shh. C'mon - let me make you feel good."

He relented, casting his phone to the bedside table. Tony was good at distraction.

—-

Face red, Peter had mumbled his apologies to Harry when he saw him next. He didn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes trailed over the dark bruise peeking out the top of Peter’s collar, but to Harry’s credit, he took it in stride. And by that, meant, he avoided Peter like plague for a solid two weeks.

It was a shame, because Harry was genuinely a nice guy - one of the few out there - and Peter dropped him to sleep with someone else. 

Tony kept asking him over. Texting at all hours, Tony would ask Peter for dinner, for drinks and no matter the excuse that prefaced it, he'd kept taking Peter to bed.

Peter always said yes.

Sometimes the request came at 11:58pm on a Friday night - which was annoying when Peter was already in his pyjamas watching the Try Guys eat themselves into a coma - but it was fine.

**< need you. come over?**

Mostly, it was code for sex.

Bent over kitchen counters, lab worktables, riding Tony on the sofa of his private quarters kind of sex. Tying the man up with webs and eating him out, entering Tony in a way he never thought he would sort of sex.

But not always. Sometimes it was an honest, platonic beckon to work on a suit or to navigate the streets of Manhattan in Tony’s Audi, music and neon lights in around them. Sometimes it was to have margaritas and samosas on the rooftop of Stark Tower, finger food and fingers interlocking, buildings below against the night like stars, a pulse of life as they clinked their perspiring glasses together.

Sometimes he’d roll up to the tower at two in the morning, American Pie playing from the speakers in the kitchen, everything smelling like burnt sugar and coffee. Tony would sweep him into his arms and they’d do some pitiful imitation of ballroom dancing, stumbling into counters as they sang along to the verses.

Peter liked those nights best, when both he and Tony knew all the words together.

Those nights ended in snickering, kisses that were more laughter than heat, and whiskey and toes curling against hips on opposite ends of the couch, upended bowls of corn chips the morning after. When he woke, Tony never seemed to notice that waking up late on Saturday mid-mornings intertwined were too intimate for whatever they were. When Peter’s alarm rang to awaken him for work on early, grey weekday mornings, Tony was already either up, or too deeply asleep and unperturbed by the wailing tones.

Against all odds, it worked.

Really. Tony’s ineptitude with reading the moment aside, things were good.

Peter’s job was interesting and fulfilling and he was paid just enough that he could afford his own apartment in Long Island City. A tiny, one bed, so small you gotta suck-in-your-stomach apartment. May and Happy were married and - well, happy - his friends were thriving. Ned texted him daily from Florida, snapchats from the beach accompanied by beautiful women.

Yeah, it was good. Months passed and he and Harry were back onto the path of reluctant friendship and there were no alien threats in at least a year. Thanks to their efforts with dismantling the underworld crime was relatively low, bank robbers aside -- 

And then there was Tony.

Beautiful, so smart he'd practically graduated MIT at conception, Tony, who would text Peter on a workday and would say:

**> come over, I want to see you**

And Peter, balancing a beaker of hydrogen peroxide would have those sparks in his gut and would wait to text back:

_< I’m at work, dumbass. I’ll come over after xx_

**> :( nooo. Play hooky and have a quiche with me**

_< As much as I’d love a *quiche with you - no. some of us work for a living, I’ll come over after -- yay or nay?_

In contrast to a resounding yay, Tony would respond with a winking emoji and a confirmation that he would see Peter later that night.

It wasn't a love declaration. It wasn't even an acknowledgement of whatever it was that they were. 

Still, whether they were dancing and tripping together in the kitchen, or in the lab, lip synching to Celine Dion with wrenches as microphones, or throwing popcorn at each other in the common room, Peter never regretted these moments.

It was what he always asked for, even the hollow parts that left Peter feeling like something had been scooped out of him.

It was like when he was in middle school, pre-bite, braces and thick-lensed glasses that swallowed his features, anxiety getting the better of him, spouting weird facts about giraffe vertebrae for an ice breaker. He was afraid to be seen. Still was, like if gazed at long enough, Tony might see how long Peter had been looking at him with something a little stronger than lust.

But it was good. It was all he'd asked for.

—-

Tony’s timing was the only thing about him that anyone could say he was poor in, but he made up for it in affection and contriteness. And really, _really_ good blowjobs.

Which is why Peter forgave him when, one night, he belatedly mentioned that Peter had been invited to a fundraiser as his plus-one.

“I know I mentioned it,” Tony says airily, kissing a path up from Peter’s knee to his inner thigh, looking like sin with face buried between Peter's legs. “The fundraiser at the Roseland, kids with cancer or something? You’re my guest. I could have sworn we spoke about this.”

“I’m your what now,” Peter exhales, licking his lips threading his fingers through Tony’s hair, soft and silky, kisses turning to teasing bites along his groin. The pinch of teeth and the prickle of Tony’s beard make his toes curl, heat spreading through his stomach. “Is this an SI thing or an Avengers thing?”

“It's a Tony Stark pretends to care about charity thing.”

“SI then,” Peter tilts his head back on a moan when Tony mouths at his balls, fingers curling in the mans hair, nails raking his scalp like how he knows the older man likes. "Also, _fuck, right there_ – since when do we do fundraisers together?”

“Since now,” Tony responds, nosing underneath Peter’s shaft to illustrate his point, placing a tender kiss there. “I could have sworn that I told you. Maybe you just distracted me with your beautiful," - _kiss -_ "everything.”

With the wet heat of Tony’s mouth enveloping his cock it’s easy to get lost, to drift away from the conversation. Everything comes down to the wet suction, to the flick of Tony's tongue. Mind goes blissfully foggy, his body thrums as the older man works him over, taking him down so well. It feels so damn good being the recipient of all of Tonys experience, Peter thinks.

When he peers back down, thumb stroking over the shell of Tony’s ear, those big brown eyes are already looking up at him with an undeniable glint of mirth even as his mouth is occupied.

Something makes Peter want to savour the moment, to commit to memory how Tony looks right now, how it feels being the centre of his attention, a focus the entire world covets. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Tony pulls off, leaning his head on one of Peter’s thighs. 

Peter hums, smiling down at him. “When is it? The fundraiser?”

“Saturday night.”

With Tony still sucking his tip, sweetly and languidly, as if he has all the time in the world, it’s almost easy to get lost again. Almost.

“Saturday, wait – ” Peter groans, suddenly more annoyed than aroused. He pushes at Tony’s shoulder to put some space between the man and his dick. "Wait."

“What?” Tony asks, pulling off immediately, looking ridiculous with a line of spit connecting his mouth to Peter's still-hard cock. 

Peter gestures helplessly to the room at large, then towards Tony and his swollen lips. “What do you mean, 'what'? It’s _Wednesday_ , Tony."

“I knew that. It's Wednesday, and?”

“And how am I going to get a suit sorted in like, two days? What if I have other plans?”

“Do you have other plans?” Tony asks, raising up on his elbows.

“W-well, no, but --”

“ -- Then what’s the problem, hmm?” Tony strokes the crease of his groin with a feather-light touch, encouraging Peter to stay half hard.

Peter slaps his hands away and points a finger in the older mans face. “You’ve given me no warning, that’s the problem. Now I have to drop everything and find a suit, get a haircut --”

“I’ll get you a tailor, I have a guy on call. He use to work for Versace, I'll fly him in,” Tony rolls his eyes, going back to mouthing along the base of Peter’s cock as if this concludes their discussion. For a moment Peter gets lost in the ministrations, awareness dissipating with the heat of Tony’s lips and the scratch of his beard.

“Mmm,” Peter hums, eyelids getting heavier as Tony works him over, before remembering and getting mad all over again. “Wait, hang on -–”

Tony groans like a kid told they’re going to the dentist, pulling off and snaking his way up Peters body in an army crawl. He kisses the pout off Peter’s lips, and Peter can't help it, his stomach swooping when his hands come up to cup Tony's jaw.

“Good god, you’re fussy tonight," Tony mumbles, pecking his lips. "Fundraiser Saturday. I’ll book in a tailor tomorrow. You’ll look like a million dollars, sweetheart.”

Probably literally a million dollars if Tony has his way.

“No,” Peter protests, using his strength to roll them over. "New plan."

The sheets get caught under them as they tumble, snickering as the other tries to gain the upper hand. Elbows meet ribs and skin is pinched, but in the end Peter emerges as the victor - with a triumphant grin, Petter presses his weight upon Tony, straddling his thighs. Readjusting himself, he pins Tony’s hips with his thighs, pressing the man into the mattress with a firm hand to his scarred sternum.

Not to be deterred, Tony reaches for Peter's cock, still standing proudly, interest renewed by their impromptu wrestling. He gets a few strokes in until Peter sends the older man a warning glare, batting his hand away again. It's almost like he knows how weak Peter is for it - and he is weak for it, that much is true. He needs a clear head.

Sighing at Peter’s stubbornness, Tony waves a hand airily for him to continue, tucking it behind his head. His posture is so confident, positively exuding control despite being pinned down, Peter wants nothing more than to lean over and capture his lips with his, to mouth along that jaw and ruin him. But he has a point to make. 

“I’ll go to this thing with you _if_ you really want me there --"

" -- Why would I invite you if I didn't want you there?" Tony cuts him off.

"Shh, let me finish. I'll go, but I’m getting my own suit. Using my _own_ money.”

That seems to be a point of contention, if the way Tony's jaw goes slack is any indication. Peter feels ridiculous for setting such an easy condition, but feels even more insistent at it being non-negotiable given the ball that Tony dropped. It's not spite, he tells himself, rubbing soothing circles on Tony's chest, it's solid, proper boundaries. 

“ _Peter_.”

“ _Anthony_.”

“Look at that, big guns, wow. You know what, fine, but no polyester,” Tony relents with a pout, hands coming to rest on the younger man’s hips. His petulance shouldn't come across as boyishly handsome as it does. “I’m allergic.” 

“You are not,” Peter huffs, satisfied nonetheless. He does reward the older man however, leaning down to capture his mouth in a soft kiss. “Take me as I am, cheap suit or not at all.”

“I did that when I first met you.”

“No, you took one look at my suit and created a multi-million dollar replacement.”

The billionaire grins lazily, thumbs stroking Peter's hips. “What can I say, you sorely test a man, Peter Parker. You and your fabrics of choice.”

“You could dress to match,” Peter offers, heat building slow and steady in his gut as they rock together slowly. “I could recommend a nice suit rack at Sears.”

“I only want you to look at my rack,” Tony says. “It’s a nice rack. Admit it.”

“It really is,” Peter agrees, hunching over and proving his devotion with his mouth.

—-

“You don’t have to come to the circus with me,” Tony says later, sheets pooled around his waist where he rests atop of his younger lover. The pointy peak of his chin digs uncomfortably into Peter’s stomach but he makes no move to push him off. “It’ll be a lot of schmoozing and ass-kissing. I just thought you might want to. Y’know, with me. I mean it could be fun, who knows.”

“I do want to,” Peter assures, cupping Tony’s cheek. 

Not for the first time since they started doing this Peter gets nervous. A low-grade fear, like a church mouse scurries up his spine and gnaws at the base of his brain, biting away at him. He wonders when this is all going to end, when Tony realises that Peter isn't his forever person. The thoughts come and go, entangling themselves in his mundane moments, but they're so much worse in the afterglow.

Any moment now Tony will surely excuse himself. Maybe he'll smile crookedly like he does, offer a one-liner or a thinly-veiled excuse of needing to be anywhere but with Peter and Peter will just _know._ When it happens, they're done. It hasn't happened yet, not one night or morning spent together.

But the anxiety keeps accumulating in increments that leave a bad taste in his mouth and Peter wonders if it's worth getting to have this. But he summons his courage and thinks, it must be worth it, to give Tony this, if this is what he needs.

The older man turns to kiss his palm and it brings a smile to Peter's face, anxiety abated for the moment.

“Okay, but, full disclosure. Are you agreeing because you don’t want me to show up alone, or because you actually want to be there?" The billionaire presses, lips moving against Peter's hand. "Because I can handle going stag, it'll be a fresh new look for me. I could make it work.”

“I thought we established somewhere between Germany and Titan that I’d go anywhere you asked,” Peter yawns, taking his hand from Tony's cheek to stifle it. The rejoinder falls flat, the air momentarily souring as history comes between them. He tries again, smiling weakly. “Usually without your permission. Hey, at least this time you're asking, right?”

Tony hums thoughtfully. Peter feels it reverberate through his skin and likes it. He likes how the lines deepen around Tony's eyes when he smiles placatingly, how the man indulges him and his missteps.

“I promise there will be no fugitives or aliens this time. Well, maybe. Eight-five percent chance that the guests will be law abiding humans, just your regular rich pricks and politicians. And the aforementioned ass-kissing.”

“You’re one of those rich pricks,” Peter reminds him, stroking his finger over Tony’s eyebrow, the hairs askew from their lovemaking. Tony smiles against his stomach and that, Peter thinks, is a sensation so intimate he'd never had the creativity to imagine it, before. He likes that feeling too.

“I know. How do you put up with me?”

“It’s a real hardship, but I manage.”

“I can’t guarantee you’ll have fun, but at least there will be booze. Lots of booze. That’s a plus, right?”

“Sure,” Peter agrees sleepily, already imagining licking the liquor off of Tony's lips. “As long as you don’t leave me to the sharks. We both know my ability to make small talk is up there with your ability to go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“Scouts honour,” Tony lowering his mouth to Peter's stomach, blowing a raspberry on his belly-button. The sudden vibrations make him squirm, laughter escaping his throat when Tony does it again. When his stomach stops moving, Tony’s head turns to lay on it, gazing up at Peter, eyes twinkling even in the soft light of early morning. The creases at the corners of his eyes when he grins is the most beautiful thing Peter has seen.

Yeah, Peter thinks, pulling Tony up for a searing kiss. He wouldn’t trade this.

——

They didn’t label whatever they were.

On slow Mondays when Peter spoke about his weekend, about spending time with Tony to his colleagues, he never used the word _boyfriend._ He couldn't imagine a world where he could call Tony something like _partner,_ as if they could ever really be equals. They sometimes said things like _my guy_ , _this man_ , but it was never really in the context that would suggest intimacy to those who didn’t know them personally.

It was fine, really. It didn’t matter to him what everyone else thought. No one knew what they did in private, or in the grey in-between moments of life, through text and video calls and how Peter felt when Tony thought of him long enough to send a photo, a tidbit about his day. He got to spend nights and mornings in Tony’s bed. He got massages and showers together, shoulder kisses, cheek kisses and and some of the best sex of his life.

Peter got awful coffee at three in the morning and was taught all of Tony’s secret hiding places. Mirthfully, a finger pressed to his lips for secrecy, Tony would show Peter his stashes, his guilty pleasures in troves of concealed blueberries, raspberries and Reeses. Peter got sticky fingers and sweet kisses and things that no one else got to have.

In the bracket of Tony’s arms it was like he was safe, untouchable - and that was just for him to feel. Even if they weren't together, like soulmates, growing old together forever, he still had that much. And even if they didn’t have titles, Peter had endearments that had his heart lighting up like fireworks and made his stomach tingle.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Tony would whisper into Peter’s throat, mouthing at his skin hungrily, arms wrapped low around Peter’s waist as he thrust upwards.

“Whatever you say, Casanova,” Peter would reply drily, nosing along Tony’s temple, gripping onto his broad shoulders as Peter rose up and down on his cock, groaning in exquisite pleasure. 

“You are. Fuck, you look so gorgeous like this, baby. You always make me feel so damn good -- like that, _fuck_ , it's never felt like this before." 

"Not true," he'd retort, tilting his neck back to see anything other than Tony's earnest eyes. He might believe the words, then, if he did.

At that moment Tony would take control, flip him over, grip his hair tight as he smothered Peter's skin in attention and he would tell Peter that he was different and, when he needed it, Peter wouldn't argue. He'd take it, like he did everything else he furtively wished they shared together. It was like flying, giving in, sometimes.

Tony has a gift with words. And sometimes Peter wishes he’d never say anything at all.

It's moments like these that Peter wonders if it really is just sex between them. Peter was sure Tony's feelings for him were closer to lust than love, but there was genuine affection there, even if it wasn't romantic. It felt romantic, even if he knew better. At the very least he wasn't a throwaway fuck.

Tony wouldn't be taking him out, right? He wouldn't risk being photographed with Peter, wouldn't introduce him to the New York elite if Peter was really just another warm body. It has to mean something. He repeats that to himself as he eats, as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, as he dumps his messenger bag on the floor and picks up the envelopes covered in red writing. Even if the plus-ones before him were beautiful and wealthy, they were temporary. Disposable.

At least no one would ever accuse Peter of being arm candy.

——

On Thursday the Bugle publishes a scathing editorial on Spider-Man.

It's not just scathing, it's absolutely _damning_. Spread over two whole pages, the piece is written in way so cogent that, had Peter not been the figure in question, he probably would have taken the 'investigative journalism' at face value. Littered with accusations and carefully twisted witness testimony, the paper correlates New York’s criminal activity and destruction of property with the webbed-figures appearances, likening him to a domestic terrorist.

_In a time where both enhanced and mutants alike are out of the proverbial closet, one has to question why Spider-Man remains masked. While his fellow enhanced and heroes are recognisable figures, the notorious web-slinger appears to have something more than his face to hide. One could query his refusal to sign the Accords when citing the overwhelming evidence that Spider-Man is in fact a harbinger of destruction. Just how much death and damage has the man wrought under the pale justification of heroics?_

Peter’s hands shake in the break-room, half-eaten ham sandwich discarded at his side while he flips through the newspaper, eyes skimming over the diatribe. It’s complete with not-so-blurry photographs of a masked Peter scaling the walls of Stark Tower on several occasions, each electronically dated, over a years worth of Peter's visits to the tower.

Then there's the shot of Iron Man carrying Peter out from the bank.

_Curiously, Spider-Man has been linked to Stark Industries [photo 3-8, credit: Eddie Brock]. Is this an official affiliation between Spider-Man and Iron Man, or is this proof of something more sinister underfoot?_

“Tony Stark affiliated with a terrorist?” Norman Osborn quotes dryly from behind Peter. “Oh, my. Who _ever_ could have called that?”

“Spider-Man isn’t a terrorist,” Peter says quietly, eyes trained on the paper. “He’s a good guy.”

“It’s not the first time you make me wonder about your critical thinking skills, Mr. Parker,” Norman drawls, leaning over Peter’s shoulder to point at a photo of Spider-Man sneaking into Stark Tower. “Everything Spider-Man touches goes bad. If he’s a good guy, he’s doing a bad job of it.”

——

Peter patrols that night.

The locals wave as he swings through alleys, over buildings. He perches upon stairwells and lamp posts, keeping an eye out for trouble. Along his travels he gets fervent, enthusiastic requests for selfies and autographs. Out-of-towners take photos, pointing their phones up at him and watching him in awed curiosity as he swings in and around the city, feet barely skimming the tops of cars as he jumps off tall buildings. Some street folk eye him warily, distrustfully, but that's par for the course. 

Around ten he rescues a terrified kitten stuck in a drain and thinks about the Staten Island Ferry. The kitten has its tiny claws embedded into his suit when he passes it back to its relieved owners and they thank him tearfully, a little girl erupting into a smile when the kitten is placed in her arms. 

When things go quiet he rests atop the One Court Square building. Despite the patrol aiming to do otherwise, the lights and noise of the city lull him into a quiet pensiveness. Peter wonders if Tony still thinks about that day. If he’s still disappointed in Peter. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, breathless with the pervading echo of nightmares where the ferry sinked and the people weren't saved, like Peter does.

Does Tony know that Peter isn’t that same person anymore, or does he think Peter will always need to be supplemented by his help? 

Peter notices a text from Tony when he decides to call it a night The man expresses his sympathies about the editorial which had subsequently been picked up by cable news and played in rotation and it reminds Peter of how the media never, ever dies. He offers to buy the Bugle which Peter profusely refuses, the idea of Tony paying to paint his narrative not settling well with him at all. It makes him smile though.

It could be worse, Peter reasons, changing back into regular clothes in an alley that reeks of piss. It's not as bad as it could be, they're equals now - Tony might think he needs all the help he can get, but at least he asks first.

Peter doesn’t go over that night and Tony doesn’t ask him to, but it’s nice to know that he was thinking of Peter.

——

"Spider-Man, a _crook_?" a police officer shakes his head. A microphone is pointed in his face. "Nah. No freakin' way. Look, I was attending an B&E last year and deadass without that guy I'd have a bullet in my back. No kidding, if he hadn't taken that guy out I'd be in a wheelchair or just _dead_ , I'm telling you he's a hero --"

The camera pans back to the reporter who holds the microphone back to her mouth. "Interesting account, huh? That's all we have time for, back to you J."

The scene cuts to Jameson in front of a wide news desk, scattered papers by his elbows and a perturbed expression on his face.

"Who was that clown," he yells to someone off camera, "We got Stark hiring paid actors now? Yikes, I know my viewers are smarter than that, you gotta be real careful folks. Fake news is everywhere, they want you to believe anything. Spider-Man is a criminal, a dirty, rotten --"

Peter shuts off his TV. He goes for a laugh at the absurdity of it, but it tastes sour.

——

Stark Industries releases a statement on Friday morning.

The carefully worded statement, signed off by Pepper Potts, explicitly outlined their that the company did not endorse terrorism, and affirmed their support for 'local, loved hero' Spider-Man, cleverly deflecting from any questions about affiliation. It was a grey-area, Peter conceded. Tony was technically government property under the Accords, however Stark Industries was not.

On the way to work, Peter took a selfie of himself on the train and sent it to Tony, accompanied by a wall of love-heart emojis. It was overkill, sure, but he wanted to ensure the gratitude was received.

_> u didn’t need 2 do that, but thank u_

**< i don’t know what you’re referring to, dear**

_> uh-huh_

**< maybe you can tell me all about it tonight. Yours or mine?**

Peter hesitated, thumbs hovering over his phone.

_> neither, sorry :( ladies night w/me n Nat. will see u tomorrow in ur fancy pants xo_

**< fine. see you then, heartbreaker :’(**

Along with the message was a selfie. It was a close-up of Tony's face was scrunched up in exaggerated despair, and it _should_ look unattractive, but doesn't. Peter rolled his eyes, saving the picture and pocketing his phone.

 _Yours or mine_ was always answered with _yours_ but Tony kept asking anyway, as if Peter might one day turn around and ask Tony to spend the night on his twin-single.

Tony had never seen the inside of Peter’s apartment. Not since he'd moved last year from May and Happy's too-squishy-for-three apartment. It wasn't for a lack of trying - it wasn’t that Tony'd expressed any disinterest in spending time in Peter’s tiny one bedroom, with its leaking ceiling and front door that jams. It was just leagues more convenient for Peter to meet him upstate for Avengers business or at the Manhattan tower.

It was for Tony’s comfort, really. He had a bad back.

That’s what Peter was going with and sticking with. Because, really, the poor man could barely sleep as it was. Peter wasn’t about to bring Tony to his place with the loud couple that always argue next door, or the kids that jump on the floorboards upstairs, it’s common courtesy. He doubts Tony has ever spent more than a day in a place like Peter's in entire his life.

He was just trying to take care of Tony.

Yeah.

It had nothing to do with the way his landlord would knock on his door at least once a week, leaving notices underneath in red marker saying _rent three days late!!!_ Really. Besides, what was Tony going to do if he stayed over and woke up at half-three in the morning - waddle over to Peter’s kitchen and blink blearily out the window at the neon sign for the Korean deli across the street?

Maybe he could shower with the either scalding hold or freezing cold water, perhaps spend twenty minutes adjusting the knobs to try and get it right only to give up just like Peter does every morning?

No, nuh-uh.

And contrary to what some people - _Natasha_ \- might claim, Peter wasn’t ashamed of what he had afforded for himself. It was his space and he was proud of it, all of it, down to his mismatched thrift-store plates and the heater that doesn’t really work unless you bang it a bunch of times.

It’s just that Tony saved the damned universe. He deserves the finest things. Peter was just trying to be one of them.

——

Friday comes and Peter doesn't want to get out of bed.

It's his own fault, really. Experience would tell him that he really should not have been checking his phone before getting up. Whatever news takes the headline is never kind or good, even when it isn't about him. 

This mornings spike of existential despair came in the form of Oscorp releasing their own statement in response to SI's public support of New York's friendly neighborhood webslinger. It was decidedly _not_ in favour of Spider-Man or any other undisclosed vigilantes and urged the community to stay away from him _for their own safety_.

Jameson orated it from his news desk with unrestrained delight, crowing about it victoriously on social media. Like digital wildfire, the corporate media ate it up, passing the story around like turkey at Thanksgiving, an appetising story; two tech titans at odds, deepening an already partisan divide.

Peter was just glad at least SI - Tony - was publicly on his side - even if it was a bummer that his employer was vehemently anti-Spider-Man, but that's just how it was. It didn't detract that his job was great, really. He had great co-workers and got to work on interesting projects and he truthfully had learned a lot in his short time at the company.

The only negative worth reciting was his boss. Norman Osborn.

Oh, Norman was cordial to begin with. Fifty-something and fatherly, all reassuring hands on shoulders, encouraging pats on the back, whispers of opportunity, emails laden with kudos. Things had been going well with Normans oversight.

Until Peter had declined a date with his son to sleep with their competitor.

Harry never said anything about it, but the demarcation of Normans behaviour toward Peter after standing Harry up was remarkable. Peter went from hot favorite to proverbial loser in the span of a day. 

“I do hope you all have a wonderful weekend,” Norman had said that Friday, smiling jovially at the employees as he made rounds through the floors, stopping by each R&D workstation to offer his well wishes. 

“Go outside, spend time with your family!” He’d encouraged to them all, making time for small chat with each team member, asking about family and weekend plans. Peter wished for nothing more than to develop the ability to become invisible or to disintegrate into the floor when Norman stopped by their table, speaking with interest to Peter’s research partner.

“Will do, sir!” his colleague had simpered, shooting finger guns at their boss as Peter cringed. “Enjoy your weekend too, Mr. Osborn.”

“You’re a good kid,” Norman nodded, tapping his knuckles on the metal bench. He pauses, eyes flickering over to Peter. “Mr. Parker, if you could make sure that report is in by the close of business I’d appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter nodded, jaw set. "Nearly done, sir."

“Nearly?" Norman had shaken his head, as if he hadn't assigned it only an hour earlier. "You might get away with it with my son, Mr. Parker, but I do not have time or patience for your tardiness. You better not be working on that adhesive I shelved.”

“No, sir. Understood, sir.”

Eyes narrowed, Norman stares at him for so long and with such searing disdain it would frighten him, hadn't he faced off with bigger, uglier things than the disapproval from an over-protective father. Regardless, Peter's pretty sure he feels his co-worker stiffen beside him from the mere proximity of the displeasure radiating from their boss. But Norman moves on, praising the next workstation for their efforts.

“Yikes,” his partner whispered, nudging Peter under the table, nodding towards their boss. “How about you - got any weekend plans, Pete?”

“Just some social thing with this guy I'm seeing, making nice with some strangers,” Peter shakes his head. “It’s not important.”

“Correct, Mr. Parker,” Norman calls back at the door, hands tucked behind him. “Cut the small talk unless you’re getting paid for it. Your report before five, thank you.”

“Yes, Mr. Osborn.”

——

**> you sure I can't convince you to dump vodka aunt and spend the night? I have robots and beer**

_< tempting, but no. besides u always have robots n beer. b patient, you'll see me tomorrow._

**> cruel, making an old man wait.**

_< i'm a terrible person, i know, but I'm sure you'll find ways to entertain yourself._

It takes a while for Tony to respond. At first Peter thinks he may have inadvertently pissed off the older man but as he approaches his stop his phone vibrates again. Choking on his spit, Peter's face goes bright red at the response, hurrying to hide his screen against his chest.

The message is just a photo of Tony, sitting naked upon a stool in the lab. The only thing he appears to be wearing is an Iron Man gauntlet on his right hand and a cheeky smile on his lips. It is very unfair and rather uncalled for and Peter absolutely does not save it to his phone. His cheeks go pink anyway and stay pink all the way home, even when he stops by a street vendor for a hot dog, the man casting him a curious stare.

_< looks unsafe. you should protect your body, i'm very attached to it._

**> you could be attached to it, like right now.**

_< Patience._

**> Patience. Have you even met me?**

Tony doesn't text him for the rest of the night. Peter's sure it's because that he's respecting his space.

Well, eighty-percent sure.

——

It was really for the best that Tony didn’t see Peter the night before the fundraiser. Peter was not his best self and witness to that was Natasha, spy extraordinaire, lounged upon his bed like a bored feline, flicking through an advanced chemistry textbook as Peter fretted over his options, sweat beading his hairline as he re-assessed all of the life choices that led him to this point.

“Tell me," he asks beseechingly, dragging his wrist against his damp forehead, "-- is a purple tie going to look stupid with a blue suit?”

Natasha sniffs, flipping through the pages of the textbook, making interested noises. She spares a split second glance at Peter before returning her attention to the book.

“No.”

Returning to his own reflection, he can't stop the mounting horror the longer he stares at himself. “I can’t believe I’m just seeing this now, it looked so much better at the store. Why, Nat, _why_ did I get a blue suit?”

“It looks nice.”

“I’m such an _idiot_ , this event is so fancy! Everyone is going to rock up in bowties and tuxedos -–”

“ –- Peter --”

“–- and there I’ll be, Pathetic Parker, wearing blue and purple poly-cotton looking like Bobo the Clown –-”

“Peter,” Natasha cuts in, swinging her legs off the bed, snapping the textbook shut for effect. "Stop it."

Peter’s jaw snaps shut at the glower he receives. He does his best not to cower and suppresses the urge to flee when she advances on him, green eyes focused on his form, her shoulders shifting in that fluid way that lions do when they casually stalk their meals. She's going to eat him alive.

“Purple or red,” he asks weakly, holding the two ties up.

“You’re thinking about this way too much, what are you doing?” Natasha clamps her hands firmly over his shoulders and gives him a little shake. “I don’t see why you didn’t let Tony dress you up.”

“I’m not his doll,” Peter insists, letting Natasha tug at his lapels and button up his shirt properly, trying not to feel too judged as she hums thoughtfully, eyes roving over his form. “And I’m not taking his money either.”

“Why not? It’s not like you asked,” she takes the purple tie and flings it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull _thunk_. “He offered.”

For all of his protests of being a man and not a marionette, Peter lets her card her fingers through his mane of curls until it resembles something to her satisfaction. With firm hands she turns him this way and that, tucking the ends of his dress suit down his pants, getting perilously close to his crotch. Tutting, she smooths over his shirt and and positions him to face his bedroom mirror.

“I don’t --” he begins, squirming as she manipulates the red tie around his neck. “I don’t want him to think I’m trying to take advantage of his money.”

She licks her fingers, elbow digging into his shoulder as she deftly twists his cowlick into obedience. “Money is Tony’s love language. Let him throw a wad at you.”

“Gross.”

“You know what I mean. He’d bankrupt himself to make you happy.”

Cheeks growing hot, Peter shakes his head, looking anywhere but at his reflection.

“I don’t think he’d -- I don’t want that. I just want to be myself,” Peter swallows roughly. “To be enough for him, by myself.”

Natasha straightens the tie, gently smoothing her hands down his arms, squeezing his elbows. There's always been something about her that Peter understood without having to say anything, like they shared the same wavelength, she doesn't need to say a thing to ground him. It's the same feeling he gets from Tony. The touch provides the courage to glance up from where he'd been staring at the ground and she smiles at him through their reflections.

“You’ll do,” she pats his back once. “But first we gotta get you some better shoes, not even I could fix those scuff marks. Where’d you even get these?”

“Thrift store. Don’t judge.”

“Oh no. I’m helping you, so I’m definitely judging.”

...That's fair.

——

The morning before the fundraiser, Peter went over to May's for their traditional weekend brunch.

Designated to sit unhelpfully upon a kitchen stool, he observed in wonder as May and Happy worked together in the kitchen. They worked together like it was choreographed, practiced in many mornings before this one. To the tune of quips and Roxette, the couple would dance around each other like old partners, steadying hands on waists, plates lifted high to avoid collision.

“Can you pass me the…” May would trail off, waving her hand in a vague gesture, and Happy would pass her the pepper without even looking.

Later, Happy would walk into the living room where Peter and May were talking, clutching mugs of coffee warming their palms. “Babe, do you know where I left my –-”

“On the kitchen table,” May would cut off, tilting her head back to smile at her partner, eyes fond.

“Right, thanks!” Followed by a beat of silence. “And do you know where I put my -–”

“In the bathroom. First drawer.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Happy would respond, hurrying over the floorboards to place an upside down kiss on her lips. “I love you, Mrs. Parker.”

“I love you more,” she’d said, shaking her head fondly at Peter as if to say _this guy_ as Happy left to retrieve his items.

It reminded of Peter being eight and watching May and Ben and thinking, _yeah, this is it_. Soulmate, once in a lifetime, kind of love. Because May never remembered where she left her keys. She'd be patting herself down for the fifth time and upending the coffee table in her frantic search. Then Ben would appear with a wry grin on his face, twirling the keys around his finger.

"Lookin' for these?" Ben would ask.

Back then it seemed like nothing would phase him, no matter the panic or the relief, the issue or outcome. Peter has always wanted to be like that, to do away with his frenetic energy to be that rock for others.

May wept the night before she married Happy.

Hands held uselessly at his sides, it had alarmed Peter at the time as one moment she was smiling, hanging up her dress, and the next she was hunched over in tears. Gut wrenching, shuddering sobs were wrenched from her small body, her words were wet and incoherent until Peter could finally decipher the intent of her distress. She'd never said so explicitly but the way she gripped a framed photo of Ben and a young, bespeckled Peter gave him an idea. But maybe it was just his own perception of how love gripped her and ripped her apart over and over again, his shirt wet as her tears soaked into it, his fingers smoothing over her hair as she mourned.

But after she’d finished crying she was smiling. Wiping away her tears with a wet laugh, she was ready to start the cycle anew. Peter didn't get it at the time, but he held her through it as best he could, shelving his own revived grief as she shook it off. Onwards, she would say.

Peter doesn't get it still, doesn't know if he ever could move on the way she has if the same thing happened to him. But she's always taught him as much about perseverance as Ben did responsibility. 

“Happy wants to get a pet,” May says in the present, sipping her coffee, eyes trained on Peter for his reaction.

Their bedroom had a floorboard that always squeaked at the slightest pressure. May tapped her fingernails against her coffee mug and Happy stepped over the floorboard, tapping and squeaking, tap, squeak.

“A pet,” Peter repeated, voice even. “Like a dog?”

Ducking her head, she peers worriedly at the bedroom door as it to make sure it’s still closed. She leans in closer to his ear and whispers. “I don't have the heart to tell him I'm allergic. What if this is him _nesting_? I’m past my prime years, kiddo. It’s the hairy chin, waking up in sweats season on my life -–”

“Oh god, please don’t talk about that.”

“It’s true!” she hisses, looking around worriedly for her partner. “What if this his way of saying he wants kids or something? Would it be such a sacrifice to have a cat?”

 _Yes, at the expense of your health,_ is what he wants to say.

The thought is birthed out of compassion, but it doesn't feel good or helpful when she bites her bottom lip and eyes her lap, thumb stroking pensively over the ceramic handle, the picture of melancholy. The bad feeling in his gut intensifies, stomach curdling when the quiet lingers, a palpable sadness coming off of her in waves. He doesn't know what else to say, too short of words to make it better for her.

“What’s with the faces?” Happy asks, coming out of the bedroom, fingers in a flurry as he buttons his dress shirt. 

“Uhhh,” Peter trails off, sharing a look with his aunt. “Tonight’s fundraiser! I was just telling May how nervous I was, you know the whole social anxiety thing and, uh –-”

Happy claps Peter on the shoulder, shaking him a little. “You’ll be fine, kid. Tony will have your back. Piece of cake.”

May smiles, mouthing an appreciative _thank you_ while her partners back is turned.

As Happy packs his lunch in the nearby kitchen, their previous conversation is suspended. In their silence, their attention is drawn to the television on the far wall. It plays, muted in the background, news anchors soundlessly report more carnage and chaos. Images of a building fire seizes Peter's breath, a birds-eye-view of a construction site on fire, plumes of black smoke billowing from the structure.

 _Twelve dead, eighteen injured_ , the banner reads below the reader. May follows his line of sight and smiles sadly.

Peter knows, it's just another tragedy. But it's one of those weird things. In the rational part of his brain, Peter knows he could have done nothing about the fire and the victims. But he feels guilty anyway.

May turns the TV off and he doesn't argue, heart caught in his throat.

"How's work?" She asks, scooting over and throwing her arms around his shoulders. She smells like she always does. Same perfume and shampoo, familiar and calming in a way that never fails to remind him of the feeling of being home.

"Really good," Peter lies. "Wooing the boss more and more everyday. He might patent my medical adhesive, he said."

"That's amazing, baby. You've always been so brilliant," she kisses his head. "You're going to change the world."

Peter changes the topic to the shelter May works at, promising to pull a few more shifts over there as both Peter and Spider-Man. The guilt of being untruthful compounds until it makes him sick, but he couldn't bear to see any more disappointment from her aimed at him.

 _I don't want to change the world_ , he wants to say. _I just want to save people._

——

The plan was to swing the whole way over to Stark Tower. Except, that doesn't happen because Peter gets distracted by the wail of police sirens and bullets firing, and he stops by to assist the police in a shootout in Midtown. 

He doesn't take a bullet this time, but a police officer does. And a civilian. 

After apprehending the three gang members, webbing them up to the nearest light poles, he stays with the wounded until the EMT's arrive.

Collateral damage, Nat would call it. Peter _hates_ that term.

"You know," he injects false confidence into his voice, hands pressed to a young woman's stomach to stem the bleeding, "they have shooting ranges for this sort of thing. Try a more legal activity next time. Or therapy."

"Bite me, Spider-Man," one of the men retorts, their legs kicking out in a fruitless attempt to free themselves. A couple of people in the watching crowd heckle him, angrily telling him that this is all his fault, that this was the price for taking down Fisk. They're drowned out soon after, but he can't unhear it.

When he finally reaches the tower, two hours later, he explains to an unperturbed Tony the reason for his lateness. He's awarded a worried once over, followed by a sweet kiss. The whisper of _you did good_ , against his lips makes him feel better.

Just a little.

——

They were running late to the fundraiser.

In the backseat of Tony’s self-driving car, Peter frets. It's his fault.

Hunched over his knees, elbows resting on his restless legs, Peter tries breathing exercises to control his nervousness. In and out, like maybe measured breaths might combat the barbed butterflies beating against his lungs. When it doesn't do much Peter sighs into his hands, trying and dispel some of pinpricks.

To his side, Tony flicks through a vertical hologram emitted from his StarkPhone, fingers flicking through the news feed lackadaisically, seemingly unbothered by their tardiness. Tony pauses mid-headline to stare at Peter, eyes drifting to his bobbing knee.

“Okay, yeah. You are _way_ too stressed out about this, Spiderlette,” he says, clamping a warm hand down on Peter’s thigh to cease its bouncing. “It’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”

“We’re _late,_ ” Peter says into his hands.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Tony repeats. “Baby, what are we late to exactly? The Mayor getting drunk on Patrón and tripping up the podium? Come on.”

“It looks bad. Trust me, I have plenty of experience with being late. No one likes it.”

Resuming flicking through his feed with his free hand, the older man offers him a sympathetic smile and a comforting squeeze to his thigh. “Looks bad - to who? The richest of the rich? I can ask the AI to override the rudimentary speed limit protocols, but believe me when I say we’re not being missed right now, kid, I promise. They coined the term fashionably late for a reason.”

“It started like two hours ago,” Peter says, issuing Tony a withering glare through his fingers when the man tries to move his hand upwards on Peter’s thigh.

“No one shows up to these things on time. It’s expected. No one will even notice. Here, pinky promise."

"You sure?" Peter asks, letting his hands fall from his face to assess Tony better. The lights of downtown Manhattan do little to dampen his devil-may-care attitude, a lopsided smile on his face as he wriggles his extended finger.

Peter links their pinkies together, tugging Tony's finger to his chest. It allows the opportunity for Tony to dig his knuckle against the part of Peter's chest where he knows he's most ticklish. It works, Peter snorting, despite himself, pressing himself against the door to get away from the offending digit.

"Here," Tony offers, unlinking their fingers. "Have this, you look like you need it.” He passes Peter over a small flask from his pocket. 

The liquid burns down his throat and up his nose as he swallows it. A trail of fire blazes down his gullet as he chases it with more, desperate to replace the tart aftertaste. “Jesus, what is that - motor oil?”

“Close to,” Tony takes the flask back and downing some for himself, offering it back to Peter. “It’s got a bit of a kick to it, huh? Just swill it. You'll be fine.”

He knocks it back and the alcohol does its job, making his head light and warming his muscles all over. But despite this, something earnest rises sharply in his lungs, something that he doesn’t know how to give name to. It leaves him breathless for a beat before his airway clears itself.

“Tony, I don't know if I can -- ” Peter says, reaching out and clutching the man’s sleeve but unable to give voice to his fears. He swallows the words down.

Tony’s eyes soften, lingering on the younger man. It feels like Peter is made out of cellophane, like the man is staring straight through him and Peter wants to assure Tony's doubts about him away, says he's okay, really - but before he can, Tony leans across the middle seat and presses his lips to the younger mans forehead.

“You can," he says, dipping his chin to catching Peter's eyes from where they're trained on his lap. "But we can leave any time you want, okay? You say when. I'm not going to be mad. It's just me and you, okay?”

“Is that why you brought me,” Peter jokes as his voice shakes, Tony's hologram disintegrating intuitively back into his phone as the vehicle slows with an automated warning, _fifteen feet until you have reached your destination._ The car pulls up to the red carpet. “So I could be your excuse to leave?”

“At least eighteen percent of why. You’re not bad to look at either,” Tony assures, reaching to grip the door handle. “Come on, you're shaking like a leaf, darling. You okay? Last chance to say no."

"Yeah - yes. Yes."

"Okay. I got you," Peters hand is seized in Tony's warm, larger one. A squeeze. "Okay, here we go --”

The first thing he became aware of was the blinding burst of camera flashes.

Stepping out of their vehicle, there was a sensory explosion Peter could only liken to a bomb going off. His senses scrambled to take in the clamour of noise and light, exploding like nearby fireworks. Paparazzi on either side of them spoke all at once, a cacophony of welcomes and probing comments. When he can focus all he sees is well-dressed reporters, glittering gowns and lenses, press extending their arms past the broad shoulders of security personnel, the stickers of network news logos adorning their microphones. For however friendly the appear, they shout queries across the carpet with practised tenacity, their questions more perverse than polite.

Tony waves to them as they walk, but doesn’t stop to speak. Keeping his hand on Peter’s shoulder the entire time, Tony steers him along the seemingly interminable red carpet, manoeuvring them around the endless swathes of suits and the _snap_ of hundreds of cameras.

Peter knew calamity. He knew commotion - but _this_ was something else. A tidal wave of relentless noise and pressure - the heat of Tony's hand through Peter’s jacket was a beacon through the chaos that guided him through, stiff-lipped, to the end. 

——

The ballroom was calmer. Not by much.

Women in designer gowns and the men who coveted them made beelines for Tony, tripping over themselves to shake his hand and offer their gratitude.

But there was a marked absence of yelling, thankfully. No one hollered, demanding a direct comment, but there was no shortage of music or conversation. Noise was inescapable, a tuxedoed quartet played proficiently on a raised stage, suits smart as socialites swan around them below as if approaching a solar god. A kaleidoscope of colour overcomes Peter’s senses and he has to stand on the spot, just for a moment, to regain his bearings.

True to Tony’s word, not a single mention is made about their tardiness. As the hours ticked into another and the ballroom filled, Peter quickly understood that they weren’t even close to being considered late.

Feeling horrendously out of place in his fifty-dollar suit, Peter did his best to make small talk with those that spoke to him, pasting on smiles and an air of confidence he didn’t feel.

Tony though, he was in his element. Schmoozing, as Tony had referred to it earlier, was a skill the older man had in spades.

“And who is _this_?” A delegate from Apple asks Tony, making small gestures to Peter like he wasn’t even there. She’s stunning. Young, blonde and slim, a long diamond necklace cascading over her dainty collarbones, nestling in her cleavage.

“Peter,” he cuts in, not giving Tony the opportunity to answer for him. He extends his hand out and tries not to cringe when the too-short sleeve of his blazer rides up his wrists. She doesn't shake his hand, leaving Peter to stand with his hand outstretched awkwardly for a moment before shoving it back into his pocket.

“This guy,” Tony claps Peter’s back, speaking proudly. "I'm telling you, he is one of _the_ greatest minds in the country. Seriously, a certified genius. Makes me look like a schmuck. You’ll be using his patents in a year, trust me.”

The woman swats playfully at Tony’s arm, her chandelier earrings swinging with the motion. It's like watching a Kardashians episode in real time. “Oh, Tony. Look at him, he’s just _adorable_ , it’s so sweet that you decided to bring him along. What an experience.”

“Not as adorable as you,” Tony winks, squeezing Peter’s shoulder as he says it. “But definitely more adorable than me, right Pete?”

“Right,” he says faintly, feeling like a fish out of water.

 _Schmoozing_ , he reminds himself. That's all this is. Ass-kissing at the expense of yourself. _You can do this, just give it a try._

Peter clears his throat, scanning his brain for suitable ice-breakers and small talk conversation starters. _Ask them a question_ , he berates himself as his mind continues to come up blank, _people love talking about themselves_. 

"Uh -- did you know that beavers secret an exudate called castoreum," he blurts out. Instead of intrigue, Peter watches with mounting dread as the woman's face pinches in mild disgust. He panics, not knowing how to salvage himself from talking about beaver slime. "Uh, yeah. It smells like vanilla and is an FDA approved additive. Back in medieval times, beekeepers used it to increase honey production."

“Oh, I think that’s my husband waving me over,” the woman mutters, gaze off to the side, her lips pursing like she’d just sucked a lemon. “I’ll see you around, Tony – and, um, it was very lovely to meet you, Paul!”

She’s already wandered off before he can croak, “It’s Peter.”

As she departs a waiter passes by with full flutes of champagne. Peter grabs one and downs half of it in one go.

“You’re doing great,” Tony assures him, stroking the sensitive skin of Peter’s neck, offering him a sedate smile when Peter dares to meet his eyes. “I know it’s a bit much to take in. Like I said, right? A circus. Everyone here is a damn clown.”

“Right.”

He's sure that's supposed to be helpful advice on perspective. But the fabric of his pants is scratchy as all hell, he can't stop adjusting himself, and the blush that stained is his cheeks after his failed attempt at socialising with the socialites hasn't left his face. If anyone is the clown here, it's him.

To add to his experience, the sea of colour and conflicts of noise make his head pound, his reaction time is hindered and more than once has he fake-laughed at a not-funny-joke later than anyone else. Closing his eyes for a moment to centre himself, Pete tries to focus on the small things. The shape of the champagne glass, the smell of Tony’s cologne, the tick of the mans watch and the odd staccato of his heartbeat.

Opening his eyes, the pain and ensuing nausea subside. He smiles at Tony. _Try again, Parker_.

Tony's eyes flicker worriedly over him. But there isn’t a lot of time to wipe the concern off the billionaires brow when, seconds later, they’re greeted by two smartly dressed individuals; an older woman dripping in pearls and a younger man, not any older than twenty. There's nothing cheap about them, from their cufflinks to their watches, to the rings that drip off their fingers as they clutch their free refills of champagne.

To Peters surprise the older woman cries out Tony’s name in unbridled delight, sweeping him into a one-armed hug. Tony doesn’t reciprocate.

“Tony, look at you. _So good_ to see you,” she simpers, her toothy smile bordered by a dark red lipstick. “Oh, it’s been so long. You look as handsome as ever. What is this, Valentino?”

“Armani. You know I haven't worn Valentino since ninety-seven, come on now,” Tony smiles stiffly, leaning in to place a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. With a pat to his shoulder, Tony introduces everyone. “Mariam, this is Peter, Peter this is Mariam, she works for the Attorney General.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Peter says genuinely, shaking her hand and that of her companion. Summoning up the remainder of his gumption, Peter is determined to do better, to not embarrass Tony. Spying her ornate brooch Peter thinks he has the perfect ice-breaker, going to compliment her taste before he gets beaten to the punch.

“Is this your driver?” Mariam asks Tony. She spares a sympathetic smile at Peter for an entire second before looking back to his companion. “I heard the previous driver got married. What was his name. again? Joy? Anyway, it was about time that he took up his retirement.”

“Oh, no," Peter begins, horrified. Sweat dampens his armpits under all of his layers. "Um –-”

“It must be a _lot_ of hard work to keep up with Tony when he’s in one of his moods. I do hope you are paid in kind, I can't imagine the shenanigans you must put up with.”

“Actually -–”

“I'm sure you have plenty of stories," she says dismissively, turning her attention back to Tony. "Tony, I said love, I said darling. I heard _all_ about the divorce with Pepper,” she leans in, completely missing Tony's grimace at the invasion of his personal space. “Terrible business, that.”

“Yes,” Tony nods, more politely than he would have done years ago. It's hard to tell if that's a sign of respect to Peter or a sign of personal growth. “But that’s behind us. Peter here is –-”

“This is my nephew, Aaron,” she interrupts, pushing the young male forward slightly towards Tony. He’s handsome, sculpted features, piercing blue eyes and a charming head of tousled brown hair. He even smiles sheepishly as he straightens his bow-tie, looking every bit the humble, modest man. “He’s just finished at the top of his class at Columbia, haven’t you darling.”

“Wow,” Tony comments. “That’s quite an achievement. Studying law and taking after your aunt, are you?”

The guy smiles again, pink blooming high on his cheeks at the attention. “Biochemical engineering, actually.”

Lost in the frenetic pace, Peter watches the exchange as something dark grows in the depths of his gut. It festers and spreads as he watch as Tony’s interest is piqued, features transforming into intrigue the longer Aaron speaks. Tony offers a look over if he applies to Stark Industries.

Peter swallows roughly while he watches the exchange, silently reprimanding himself for the darkness brewing in his chest. So, this new guy is attractive and refreshingly unpretentious. So what? That doesn't mean anything, why would it mean anything? Discomfort growing anyway, Peter finishes the flute of champagne and then helps himself to another. And then another.

The couple leave after Tony has passed on the contact for Human Resources, signing off to the exchange with a hearty hug and handshake. It's fine, Peter reminds himself to combat the weird feeling rumbling behind his sternum. It's making connections, associating. Good PR, or something.

“You okay, darling?” Tony asks as Peter winces, the fourth glass of champagne going straight to his head. “You're looking peaky. Is that the word people use? Peaky. Anyway, maybe you should go a bit easier on the bubbly, yeah?”

“I’m fine,” Peter says, but Tony’s already being flagged down by a man in a pastel-blue tuxedo.

Peter snorts before they intersect, thinking to himself of how dumb he would look in a pastel-blue tux. Stick a lollipop in his mouth and he'd look like an infant in a onesie. Maybe tux-guy thought Peter was laughing at him, because despite Tony introducing him, the guy barely spares a glance towards Peter as he _schmoozes_ , complimenting Tony on his suit, recounting his latest holiday in the Maldives and how terrible the weather was.

It might be something that they laugh about later, but Peter isn’t sure that Tony remembers he’s there. Especially after a waiter hurries to supply Tony with a whole five-fingers of whiskey and - oh, that's what it meant. Despite the disruption, their conversation carries on smoothly while Peter watches and says nothing.

Smoothing a hand over his red tie, it takes a moment for Peter to identify the feeling of discomfort as the sensation of being invisible.

All throughout the night Tony keeps his hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and Peter does his best to keep his mouth shut. The older man, bless him, tries to include him, but Peter grows quieter and quieter as the night goes on.

He spies Pepper across the room and waves to her when her gaze wanders in his direction, but a large man walks by at the same time Peter raises his hand. She’s already looked away. Embarrassed and desperate for something to do with his hands, Peter takes hors d'oeuvres from passing trays and shoves them into his mouth, chewing noisily as Tony speaks beside him.

He feels incredibly stupid for bothering to feel nervous before, he wishes that he could stitch himself into the lush tapestry like he’d never been there at all. It’s not like anyone saw Peter. Not as Tony's equal or his lover, anyway. Most of the minglers take Peter to be one of Tony’s colleagues or his help – or on one memorable occasion, his son.

In fact, to round off the complete experience of utter humiliation, there is only one person in the entire hive that doesn’t mistake Peter and Tony as platonic associates.

“Mr. Parker,” Normans deep, craggy voice croaks to his side somewhere, precise and efficient like a sniper through the crowd. “I thought I recognised you.”

“Crap,” Peter curses, clamping his eyelids shut and turning his back as if that would mean Norman couldn’t see him. He shuffles closer to Tony's side on instinct, as if he could make him invisible. “Crap, shit, fuck.”

“What a surprise to see you here,” the drawling voice nears, echoed by sharp footsteps and the noise of hush from their surrounding patrons. “This is hardly where I’d expect to find you on a Saturday night.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter whirls around to face his boss and offers his fakest, brightest smile. He slaps a trembling hand to his chest. “Mr. Osborn, hello!” he greets nervously, injecting as much startled surprise into his voice as he can muster. “Isn’t that something. I didn’t see you there.”

His hands are shaking and his palms are sweating, but Peter still extends his arm out for a handshake. He doesn’t miss the way Normans eyes flick between himself and Tony, the scarce space between them and the conclusions that settle with a displeased harrumph.

Norman smiles grimly before sipping idly from his glass of wine.

“Yes, well, your lack of foresight is never of any shock to me, Mr. Parker.” He throws the rest of it back before acknowledging the other man with a pained nod. “Stark.”

“Osborn.”

“I didn’t realise you knew our young Peter, here,” Norman says, mouth in a flat line. Eyes tracking Tony’s arm wrapping itself around Peter’s hip, his frown deepens. “Or that you two were… close.”

“Norman Osborn, behind on the times,” Tony mutters, placing a kiss on Peter’s cheek, showing him the most affection since they got here. “What a shock. I’m shocked. Peter, are you shocked?”

Peter felt sick.

Glancing between them, everything felt sticky, slow-motion, and sour. The air in the room goes cold and it distorts something inside himself, feeling both inadequate and at a disadvantage, despite being the strongest person in the room.

The tension surrounding the three was so tangible it wrapped itself tightly around Peter’s middle, compressing all of his organs until the room became a blur; bile rose up in his throat. The arm around his waist and the kiss Tony had pressed to his cheek didn’t feel reassuring and protective. It felt possessive. Owning. Like Peter was just a chess piece in a game that he had no business playing.

He already knew the return to work on Monday would be nothing short of horrible, at best. Walking out with a box of his belongings in his arms at worst.

Peter had thought he was being so clever, not bringing up his affiliation to Tony or Stark Industries, so eager to be seen as a whole person by himself, his own man, not just the kid that got a foot up from Tony Stark.

But with Tony’s hand clutching his hip, Peter has never felt more like one of Tony’s things.

Now Norman is looking between him and Tony and putting two horribly incorrect conclusions together to a repetitive, skipping soundtrack called _conflict of interest_ and _insider trading_.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Peter says suddenly, swallowing the full glass of champagne he’d been cradling in one go and handing the empty glass to Tony.

Wriggling out of the billionaires hold, Peter stumbles on his footing. He knows his smile looks strangled when he offers it to the men before swiftly turning away, his quick, clipped footsteps pounding on the floor in tandem with his racing heartbeat in search of a bathroom to become more invisible in.

From far away Peter hears Tony mutter some withering wisecrack to Norman about being his presence being a repellent but Peter tunes it out, he doesn’t want to know.

Inside the mens bathroom it’s as fancy and ostentatious as the ballroom. Velvet curtains adorn the walls and gold lines the benches, the faucets. An honest-to-god tuxedoed member of staff offers Peter a fresh cotton towel. Peter accepts it and runs it under the tap, dampening it with cold water.

Pressing it to his face, Peter sighs into the wet fabric, wishing to be anywhere but here. Why did he think this was a good idea? In what universe was he ever going to come close to fit in with this part of Tony’s life?

The vision that he'd held of one day being Tony’s partner swims before his eyes before it crumples and gets discarded like all of Peter’s other bright ideas. He’s not even Tony’s equal to these people - he’s the plus one.

Tossing the towel in the nearby laundry disposal, Peter spares a peek at his reflection, self-deprecation burying itself into his sternum at the flush that has bloomed on his pale skin, neck and nose bright pink with intoxication. He looks disdainfully down at his cheap suit with the too-short sleeves.

Even the staff are better dressed than he is.

Picking at a fraying hem on the blazer pocket, shame blooms unbidden out into his chest, heating up his face. He's never felt more like just a kid, playing dress up.

Big hero Peter is, pretending that Tony Stark isn’t the most interesting thing about himself.

He wanders back into the ballroom in a daze, watching with a detached sense of defeat as a crowd of adorers and equals flock around Tony, phones poised for selfies like it's the Oscars of rich people. Tony is clearly in his element, gesturing with his glass of scotch as he regales some story, all the beautiful people around him laughing accordingly at the punchlines. It’s their laughter that rings in Peters ears as he timidly approaches the group.

A woman, a rusty-red-head in a deep, plunging dress, a knock-off version of Pepper Potts, curls her fingers around Tony’s wrist as she thanks him for all of his efforts as his alter ego.

“I’d like to show you my thanks, personally and in private,” she winks lasciviously, laughing playfully and soaking up the wolf-whistles. Peter can’t tell if she’s joking.

Phone cameras snick and snap, the quartet plays and perfume wafts relentlessly under Peter's nose. The sick feeling is back. Watching from the outskirts, blood draining from his face he watches Tony peer at her chest comically in a way designed to both flatter her and amuse the audience.

“A tempting offer,” Tony says politely, taking a telling step back. He pauses for a second, looking out at the crowd searchingly; maybe for himself, but maybe just for a drink. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken a trip to Silicon Valley, and quite frankly, I’m not terribly interested in returning at this stage, but thank you for considering me.”

 _A joke about her breasts_ , Peter thinks, not sure why that makes his throat go tight. Tony’s not doing anything wrong, it’s just –

 _It’s because his decline had nothing to do with you_ , the insidious voice in his head says. No _I’m taken._ No _I’m off the market_.

There was probably a good reason that they had never defined what they were.

Something snaps quietly in Peter's chest.

Retrieving his phone from his pocket, fingers moving in a flurry, he texts Tony. He says he’s not feeling well and is leaving, eyes burning for some stupid reason as he does so. He doesn’t give Tony the chance to respond or even wait to see if Tony noticed the text coming through, fearful that the cage of his ribs might just crack and let his heart out if he did.

Turning on his foot and cursing his own stupidity, Peter turns and leaves, catching the first cab he sees.

——

The radio in the cab was playing a podcast from the Bugle. When Peter worked up the courage to ask the driver to change what they were listening to, the drivers response was to scoff loudly and call Peter a _commie_ under his breath. 

His phone vibrates the entire way home and Jameson rants through the crackling speakers about taxes, spouting conspiracies of Stark Industries conducting unlawful surveillance of New York's citizens and how Spider-Man is clearly in on the scheme and the cab driver turns the volume up and nods along. The speed and lights as they drive over Queensboro Bridge makes Peter's head spin.

The cab is expensive but Peter pays it dutifully when it parks outside his apartment building, sending a prayer to his bank account. It isn't until he's standing dumbly in front of his door, a little drunk, that he realises that he left his keys in Tony's car.

"Ah, fuck," Peter says to an empty hallway.

It's not his finest moment, breaking into his own apartment.

Inside and dropping parts of his suit all over, his tie on a table, his jacket on the sofa, Peter mentally calculates just what kind of money he's going to have to shuffle around to pay for the doorknob he now needs to replace.

All of the fight has drained out of him and as he changes into jeans and a shirt, Peter settles on the couch. Loosely gripping his phone, he's almost tempted to call Tony and apologise. But he can't -- he's just so _mad_ at everything.

Instead, he places his head in his hands and sighs. It's not even Tony's fault that he's feeling like this, he didn't even do anything wrong. It's Peter. It's his own shortcomings, his own childishness that made him storm out of the fundraiser. He was being petty, jealous that Tony was doing his job making nice with associates, a job that he had been doing since before Peter was even born.

It's not that he wanted Tony to be giving him the attention that he gave others. It's that Peter wanted to be the type of person who fit in and completed Tony without needing to ask- and to not the person that he actually was. The person who dumps dates for people who don't love him, the person who causes as much damage trying to save people as he has people convinced his efforts are zero-sum. The person who just couldn't stop fucking things up.

Tony made Peter look good. But Peter only ever dulled Tony's shine.

From being Spider-Man to his job, to his relationships, Peter mismanaged it all. There's something deeply wrong with him. Everything he touches goes to shit.

——

Sundays are slow, sedate days meant for church-goers and for chores and errands that were abandoned in busy work weeks. It drips by, a weird fusion - a post Saturday come-down and a pre-Monday wind up, a phantom of a do-we, don't-we conundrum follows the entire day. Hungover and heart-sick, Peter doesn't appreciate the leisurely speed as he searches for something to do.

After assuring Tony that he isn’t dead following a string of concerned texts, Peter’s plan for Sunday is to ignore the piling text messages coming in from him and day drink.

Laundry can wait for his lethargy, he has spare pairs of underwear, probably. High on poor decision-making that he likens to a mudslide, Peter orders a pizza for lunch and cracks open the 1996 Dom Pérignon Rosé Gold that Tony gifted him for his twenty-first birthday.

The pop of the cork feels good, satisfying. It’s been sitting there on Peter's shelf from all the way back when, but doesn’t taste a day old when Peter brings it to his mouth and chugs back a mouthful straight from the bottle, rivulets spilling inelegantly down the sides of his mouth.

He wonders what Ben would think of him now, of how far Peter misaimed his trajectory in trying to be like him.

In any case, Peter's heard the way to get over a hangover is to just keep drinking. That's what he does, sipping intermittently, vacantly staring at the peeling wall paint, the second hand coffee table littered in scuff marks. That's his strategy. Drinking alone and ignoring every message or tweet, instagramming a picture of his deflated suit as an icon to Spider-Mans unofficial account as an act of self-care.

After five minutes of wallowing in self-pity, there’s a knock at his door.

Of course, things can never go to plan. Can’t have something like a simple Sunday with his overpriced wine, getting shitfaced to avoid his very adult problems, can't cry about how his privilege isn't perfect. Gotta let that Parker Luck have its way.

“Please don’t be Tony,” Peter chants to himself, pulling jeans over his boxers to answer the door. Crossed fingers behind his back, Peter nervously answers the door.

It’s not Tony.

Natasha stands in the hallway, clad in all black, a stern expression on her face. Arms crossed over her chest and without speaking, she scans the sad state of his living room and shakes her head.

“Who sent you,” Peter asks, eyeing her suspiciously.

She stares at him, eyebrows arched and exuding bewilderment. 

“You did,” she digs out her phone, showing him a slew of increasingly incoherent messages he’d sent her at three in the morning. “Moron.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You want to tell me what this was all about?”

Stepping to the side he lets her in, shutting the door behind her. “Not really,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. He takes stock of his living room and cringes at the mess, the stack of bills lying carelessly on the kitchen table. "I've just had a lot going on."

She sighs, but doesn't push him. Instead, she makes herself at home on his lumpy sofa, helping herself to a slice of pizza still steaming from the box on his coffee table. Slouching, she rests her feet upon his coffee table, boots thudding upon contact. Unexpectedly glad at the company, he's not even mad about it. 

Peter looks between her and the unfinished bottle of Rosé.

“What,” she notices his stare, words muffled by a mouthful of cheesy pizza.

“Wanna get really drunk?”

——

An hour, a delivery of vodka, and some tearful explanations later, both are pleasantly drunk. Slouched on the couch, Peter’s head on Natasha’s shoulder, he blinks listlessly as she passes him a drink of vodka and OJ.

“Fuck Stark,” she says, chugging back from her own cup. It’s Peters favourite Iron Man mug.

“I did that,” he nods, taking a sip and wincing. “I fucked him.”

“No, I mean _fuck him_ , fuck him.”

“I said I did that,” Peter says woefully, sniffling. “I fucked him. I fucked Iron Man.”

“You are the worst drunk,” Natasha frowns at him, leaning over him pushing his curls away from his forehead. “Have another drink, god, just please stop talking.”

“Have you ever met my friend, MJ?” Peter blinks, sipping the Rosé straight from the bottle, offering it to her, relieved when she takes the weight from his hand.

“No. Why?”

“No reason.”

——

“Have you ever seen Moulin Rouge?” Peter strokes Natashas shoulder, Karen playing Something Stupid from his personalised speaker system, Frank and Nancy crooning as the mid afternoon sun drifts through the curtains.

“Once,” Natasha swills her vodka straight, gulping audibly. “Hated it. Stupid ending.”

“Wanna watch it again and cry?”

“…okay.”

——

Peter rubs at his eyes, sniffing wetly when _El Tango de Roxanne_ plays.

“Fuck me,” Natasha sighs, pushing his face into the crook of his neck, shushing him as he sniffles, a tear escapes his eye and runs down the column of her throat.

“Sorry,” he says, alcohol having a perfect marriage with his memories. “Look at them. They’re so in love.”

"The actual worst," she repeats. But Peter hears her voice shake with emotion.

——

“I want gyro,” Natasha says, throwing her piece of lego across the room.

Moulin Rouge was a disaster. They stuck to less emotive activities afterwards. 

“Gyro, check, chicken?” Peter repeats, fingers already flying over the app on his phone. “Greek salad, check. Oh, they sell alcohol at this one. Prosecco?”

“Chicken gyro and Prosecco,” Natasha snorts. “What kind of bastardisation is that?”

“It’s New York,” he says.

——

A report runs on CNN, an otherwise boring piece about insurance, how premiums have changed. Before, when destruction was wrought upon the city, a Loki, a Vulture, it would come under a government declared state of emergency. Now it's called the Enhanced Clause. Pay for Gold Unlimited and you can be covered for the damage caused by hero's falling on your car or blasting your office windows. Get caught in the crosshairs of a super-fight and get your ankle broken? You can be covered for that too.

Peter shakes his head, taking a large bite of his gyro. It's so fucking quintessentially American.

A reporter stands in front of a small group of people on the street, asking them what they think of it.

"I don't mind having to pay extra," one shrugs. "This is the world we live in now."

"You - _beep_ \- joking?" A guy snaps. "You got cucks like Spider-Man doing whatever he wants and I have to pay for it? Nah man, that's a joke. NYPD need to get this guy locked up. Yo Spidey, we don't need you."

A woman defends him which makes Peter feel a little better. "That guy saved my sister when she was in a car accident, we do need him. NYPD should be _paying_ him."

"Why do you even watch the news?" Natasha asks, turning the television off and throwing the remote down the hall when Peter makes a half-hearted grab for it. "Why would you watch this."

He doesn't watch the news. He reads the news, mostly. He listens to it on the radio, on hacked police scanners, goes on neighborhood watch forums, twitter feeds, and government emergency databases. He misses the days when he could just patrol, spend weekends swinging through the city, catching and stopping crime with his own senses. He doesn't have time for that anymore, so it's this or hang up the suit. Even if some of it are incidental blows to his spirit.

Natasha looks at him a little sadly and Peter realises he has said all of that out loud. "Well," she drawls, "that sounds healthy. Don't you ever give yourself a break?" 

"Of course, he says, gesturing between them. "Isn't that what we're doing now?"

Maybe it's the booze, but her next look is hard to decipher.

"Is it?"

——

In the wee hours of the morning, Peter shakes Natasha awake. The agent is asleep on his couch, snoring softly into the armrest, legs twitching restlessly against his as she snoozes, her features lax. She squints blearily against the blue-light of his TV as she rouses, mouth pursed like an infant that ate something sour.

Helping her up, Peter turns off the speaker still playing Sinatra and sends a tipsy prayer above that his neighbors say nothing about the noise at, he blinks at his phone - one-twenty-seven in the morning. 

At his prompting she follows him to bed, gripping the wine still, mindful of her comfort even as his vision swims.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he defers, manoeuvring her towards his bed.

“Don’t be stupid, stupid,” she slurs, pulling him down to the bed. “You’re little spoon. Because you're my little spider.”

The room starts spinning so he lets go of the bottle of wine to lie down sideways on his bed. He spots one of Tony’s tee's peeking out of one of the dresser drawers and reaches out to pull it over himself, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the cotton. He remembers Tony letting him borrow it a few months ago after he got grease all over his own shirt. The smell still makes him feel safe.

“Sad,” Natasha snuffles against the nape of his neck.

“Hag,” he pouts into the item.

He must have fallen asleep because some indeterminate time later he wakes when the bed dips beside him and a hand runs through his hair.

“…Nat?”

“Pick up the phone,” she says, kicking him in the back of the knee.

Blinking at the light from his phone, Peter pounds at the green button. "Hello?” he greets, fighting to keep his heavy eyelids open and aiming the phone light away from Natasha.

“Oh, so he's alive. I haven’t heard from you all day, are you –”

His head spins. “ _Tony_?”

“Yes? Do you not have caller ID? Anyway, just calling to check in, are you --”

“It’s, like, three in the morning,” Peter interrupts, frowning at the clock on his phone. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Oh, sorry - I just thought,” Tony’s voice whispers softly, cutting himself off. “I just thought you’d had a rough couple of nights.”

“No kidding.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Peter snorts, “You’re about eighteen hours too late for that,” he mumbles. 

Tony sighs just as the call is terminated and Peter slips back into restless slumber.

——

The entire trip to work on Monday is spent berating himself. It's not that he's trying to make himself feel worse, but it doesn't stop him from telling himself that it’s unreasonable to feel this degree of angry or hurt. Tony didn’t really deserve Peter shutting him out and would probably drop everything to make it better. But it’s the ‘make it better’ part that gets to him.

Everyone looks at Peter Parker and thinks, _make it better_.

Really, that's what he should be doing with Tony right now, trying to make amends. But either pride or anxiety cramps him up and in the end he does nothing. At least he has his job to distract him. For now.

Except, when he logs into his work-issued smartpad, he has an email from HR flagged High Importance. With no small amount of dread, Peter opens it, heart dropping when he notes it's for a meeting for three sharp that afternoon. Peter knows its not so much of a request as it is an order, but it helps him feel like he has some sense of agency when he clicks to accept it.

Even Harry picks up on his maudlin mood, giving him a wide berth throughout the day. Or maybe his father has already filled him in on what happened over the weekend. No, it's definitely the latter because Harry doesn't join him the break room for lunch that day, but there is a Bugle newspaper left open to an article that covered the fundraiser. His intention is to ignore it for the sake of his own mental health but a picture of himself and Tony catches his eye. 

_[Pictured, Tony Stark of Stark Industries and an unknown male companion, photo 6]_

_In the first public event since his split with Pepper Potts, Tony is seen strolling the red carpet with a younger man. Not to be mistaken for a love interest, sources say the male seen at the tech moguls side is the step-nephew of his longtime employee, Happy Hogan._

Peter sighs, closing the newspaper. 

He spends the remainder of his lunch-break cradling a cup of cheap coffee and a gut full of guilt, wondering exactly how much longer he has in this job, the one damn thing he could say he did all by himself. Pride comes before a fall, he guesses.

The meeting goes poorly.

Red faced and shaking, Peter earnestly tries to explain that no, he isn’t a plant from Stark Industries, no he’s not selling secrets to the competition and _no_ he’s not fucked anyone on the board to get his position. His connection to Tony Stark just a coincidence to his position at Oscorp, and yes, Peter is loyal to the company.

He’s met with dubious stares and harder questions, Norman sitting stony faced opposite him, a stonier woman from Legal with a harsh sneer beside him, gatekeepers to his future employment.

He gets to keep his job, barely. They can’t fire him on the basis of suspicion and who he may or may not be sleeping with but the message is loud and clear: _you’re on thin fucking ice_.

Great.

He goes back to his work station, shaken and pale. Someone asks him if he’s sick and he remembers shaking his head and insisting that _he’s totally fine, dude_ \- but the thousand-yard stare and downturn of his lips does little to convince anyone. But he gets through the rest of the day, and that's something.

——

 _> i just have a lot going on right now,_ Peter begins typing.

_> i don't know if i'm doing the right thing_

_> i think i am, i know i am. mostly. but there's just. i just feel like shit all the time and i don't know how to stop it._

_> it's not your fault. i just need to get myself together._

_> i'm sorry._

He deletes all of it.

Or at least he thinks he does.

——

On the journey home, Peter decides on a whim to get off a stop early. It manifests as an itch in the base of his spine, a restlessness. On the 7 headed to Queens something urges him to get off a stop sooner to stretch his legs. How long has it been, Peter wonders, since he walked the streets of his city instead of swinging through it. How long has it been since he took the time really wander, to hear the sounds of the city from the ground.

So he roams, peering up at the skyscrapers from below. It's not often these days that he gets to read signage from the ground, remember the phantom of his footsteps from younger years - recalling the sensory memories of how he would discover the borough and scour all of its hidden nooks when he was a kid. Back when he was in middle-school Peter didn't have any friends, but he didn't want May or Ben to know. So he lied, said he was spending the afternoon with a friend, when instead he would be wandering the neighborhood, marvelling at the bright lights and spending pocket-money on churro's, hot dogs and the cuisines in Flushings, Chinatown. 

Scooping the spare change from his pocket, Peter sits beside a homeless man and offers him one of his protein bars.

"Thanks, man."

"No problem," Peter nods, content watching the humdrum of passing pedestrians.

"...You ever hear the story about a talking racoon?" The guy asks moments later, tearing the wrapper and biting into the bar.

"Don't think so. Tell me."

Afterwards he continues to wander, his pace leisurely as he can muster. He stops by a truck and buys jianbing, eating it as he walks and washing the sting of chilli down with soy milk, the sound and smell of traffic so much louder, more vivd in the crowded streets. There's a busker outside of a pawn shop playing the Star Wars theme song on their violin and Peter throws the last of his change from the vendor, coins clinking as it lands in their case.

It's as he's turning to go in the direction of home that something colourful catches his attention, a speckle from his peripheral vision. Curious, Peter follows it. It's only as he's nearing it, broad splashes of blue and red, that he recognises what's caught his eye. 

Between two alleys, against the red-brickwork of a fire-station stands a forty-foot-tall mural of Spider-Man. Not just of him, but of all the known iterations of his Spider-Man, each suit he wore and fought in public; from the homemade onesie to the newest, white-spider suit, all of it rendered in painfully lifelike renditions against the station.

Peter's eyes sting as they flicker over the brickwork, it seems like the entire space is dedicated to the swinging form of the webbed-vigilante, his endeavours portrayed in vivid colour, shooting comical webs at Vulture, wrists outstretched, visible _thwip_ effects accompanying the remarkable interpretations of Vulture, Mysterio and Thanos. Paint immortalises Spider-Man against the building in furious, arresting glory.

Wreathes and stacks of flowers accumulate beneath the enormous artwork, unlit candles and crosses bearing dates and names speckled amongst the petals. There are cards and red-blue drawings on crumpled paper. 

Mouth agape, Peter approaches. 

There is a policeman stationed nearby, official cap affixed neatly upon his brow. The officer, clutching his baton, spares a wary glance at a dumbfounded Peter, who can't stop staring the incredible detail in the artistry, right down to translucency of his dewy-stickiness of his webs.

"Wow," Peter mumbles, whipping out his phone to take pictures, eyes stinging as he snaps each frame. "Holy _wow_. That's something."

The policeman seems less than impressed, posture increasingly squared as Peter approaches. "I'm going to have to ask you to remain at least three-feet back from the display, sir."

"How come?" Peter asks, shuffling in reverse until his back until he is flush against the opposing wall. The position gives him a better view, but Peter can already tell the perch of the building chimney would give him the best perspective. If it were an ode to Tony he'd come back in suit to take a shot from every angle, but this, this vivid retelling of his own journey is perfect from the ground.

The man says, gesturing to the street with the end of his gun. "Some people don't wanna just look. Mayor wants a perimeter to preserve it." 

"The mayor? Who's the artist?"

"What are you, a tourist? It was a community project. People just started adding to it. The guy's a hero, even if a few don't like him."

"You don't think he's a trouble-maker?"

The officer balks, staring at Peter as if he were speaking another language. He points his finger at both Peter and the world outside this alley, as if he could encapsulate the entire world with two fingers. "No, sir. You got companies making biological weapons and the law being paid to look the other way. Avengers don't step in until it's the apocalypse. Accords or no Accords, that aint Spider-Man."

"How so?"

"He don't want anything in return and he helps the little guy. My son wants to be just like him. Some of us cops know a thing or two about keeping our identity safe, 'specially after Fisk."

Jaw heavy, Peter nods his thanks, talking a further few snapshots. He looks at it for a long time.

——

When he gets home he doesn't turn on the TV. He spends the night watching Netflix instead of the news. He leaves the scanners off and listens to a playlist.

It's nice. It's really nice.

It doesn't fix all of the bad feelings still housed in his chest. But it reminds him that some of the responsibility that drives him is owed to himself. 

——

Tuesday goes better.

All of the fight has drained out of Peter and his overwhelming drive is to make good with the people in his life. So he starts small, buying Harry a coffee and helping him with the wiring on his prototype, talking shop until Harry is smiling at him again.

The rest of the day goes smoothly, he doesn't see Norman once and he feels a hell of a lot lighter for it. By the end of the day, Peter is smiling again too.

It doesn't mean he's eager to leave. He's got to make his amends with Tony, and well, that's a whole other thing. There's a lingering fear that he went too far, that Tony doesn't want anything to do with him anymore, even if he knows that's himself catastrophising. It's a hazard of the trade, to expect the worst but hope for the best. 

But it has to be done, Peter has to apologise. Tony at least deserves that.

Sighing, Peter eventually shoulders his messenger bag and takes the elevator down to the lobby. It takes him straight to the ground floor without stopping, a sign of just how late he's stayed to avoid confronting his fate. But it's time, and for all he berates Tony on punctuality, it's Peter that's out of time on this wine.

Stepping out of the elevator doors, Peter retrieves his phone from his pocket and presses on Tony's contact. Stomach squirming, Peter hopes he can somehow make it up to him.

He rounds the corner towards reception and the front area and gets startled he hears a familiar ringing. Peter freezes, spotting a familiar form hunched over on a seat in the waiting area.

“Hey, Pete,” Tony answers, the voice echoing in his ear.

“…Hey,” Peter replies softly, approaching a Tony looks up at him, phone held to his ear in one hand, a preposterously large bouquet of red roses in the other. 

Peter sighs, approaching him as relief floods his veins. “Just wanted to call and say that –-”

“–- I’m sorry,” Tony interrupts, his voice in duplicate through the phone and in front of Peter. The echo is disconcerting, so he hangs up and shrugs helplessly.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” Peter assures, stepping closer, heart beating against his chest like a rabbits thump. “I _’m_ sorry, Tony. I was childish and a jerk. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, this is on me," Tony stresses, closing the gap between them and stroking Peter’ cheek with his knuckles. Under the yellow light the billionaire looks like he's barely holding it together, hair limp and skin sallow, looking as terrible as Peter feels. "I should have done better. I wasn’t there. I know you've been overwhelmed lately, I should have taken better care of you."

“No, stop. I don’t have priority over your time, you have a demanding life and I’m happy to just be a part of it.”

“You are my priority, Peter. If you don’t know that by now then that’s on me. This is all on me. I’ve been a terrible boyfriend.”

Peters voice comes out strangled.

“Boyfriend?”

A moment of silence passes between them. Tony visibly cringes.

“Sorry, that’s juvenile, right? No one says that after high school. Partner. Lover?”

“Boyfriend,” Peter repeats, head spinning.

A frown purses Tony’s lips together, a line appears between his brows. “Okay, wait. Is this one of those occasions where I think you and I are on the same page, but we’re on two different planets? Are we not feeling the boyfriend vibe or did I skip a whole bunch of steps and jump the gun -–”

“–- You never said,” Peter swallows, shaking his head. “I didn’t think — I wanted. I wanted that. I just... didn’t think that you did.”

An entire catalogue of emotion crosses Tony's face before it is visibly schooled into practiced impassiveness. It's a different kind of sting to see that kind of guardedness directed towards himself, but Peter can only blame his own stupidity for it. 

“Well I did," Tony clears his throat. "Do you? This is a need to know basis on account of my pride, so, yes or no, because I'm going to continue talking --"

“I do,” Peter cuts him off, smiling politely at some of the staff who eye them curiously as they walk past. “I do want that."

“Good," Tony nods, straightening his back and averting his gaze, away from Peter. His entire posture radiates discomfort, like there's something he wants to say but can't - or won't. It's a familiar look, but it catches him by surprise when Tony follows it up with, "I missed you, kid."

“I missed _you_ ,” Peter admits, voice thick with emotion.

Whatever is between them immediately crumbles when Tony envelops Peter in a tight hug. He returns, winding his arms around Tony’s waist and burying his face into the older mans neck right there in the foyer. The tension in his shoulders seeps out and like a puppet with its strings cut he goes boneless in Tony’s embrace. A gentle kiss is pressed to Peter's temple. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Peter shakes his head, burying his nose into the junction between Tony’s neck and shoulder. They probably should. There's a lot that Peter wants to say, a lot he wants to explain, but for the first time in days he feels like he's at home, right where he should be. They stand on the spot, swaying slightly for a long while before pulling away. Tony takes the opportunity to pass Peter the extravagant rose bouquet.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, bringing them towards his face to sniff.

Intertwining his hand with Peter’s, Tony leads them out of the foyer and into the night. “What do you say we go back to my place,” the billionaire begins, “order some pizza and watch some TV? What do you feel like?”

Squeezing Tony's fingers, Peter politely ignores the people already taking photos of them on the street, waiting for the whispers of _that's Iron Man_ to pass until he verbalises his counteroffer.

"Why don't we go to my place instead?"

Peter bites his lips, chest aching at the lines that appear at the corner of Tony’s eyes when he smiles to himself, how the man tries to quirk his lips back down to appear unaffected. Softening, Peter thinks he probably should have asked earlier with the way Tony's fingers squeeze back, how he needs to clear his throat before answering.

“I think it is a stupendous idea, Mr. Parker.”

“Stupendous?” Peter queries, swinging their joined hands as they continue their stroll.

“Stupendous,” Tony confirms. “Like the perfect combination of you and me. Stupid, me, and wondrous, you.”

“Not sure that’s what stupendous means, but I’ll take it,” Peter stops, scanning the sidewalk. “Hey, where’s your car?”

Tony tugs his hand so they walk southwards along the sidewalk. “I may have told the AI to head back and decided to take the train with you.”

“What?” Peter asks, delighted. “You’re seriously going to forego your precious car to join me with the commoners?”

“Okay, calm down. I’ve taken the subway before.”

“When, in the nineteenth century? The steam train?” Peter kisses the older mans chin to soothe the sting of his words.

Huffing, Tony produces a pristine MetroCard from somewhere at the gates and accepts Peter's expertise as the younger of the two guides them along through the tunnels. Hand-in-hand they ascend down the stairs to wait at the platform with Peter. Despite it being somewhat passed the peak rush it’s still busy, the platform bustling with suits and sneakers alike. Excitement simmers low in Peter’s stomach, having Tony, the saviour of the universe, take the train home with him.

Tony crowds against Peter back until the train arrives, shielding him from the passengers with his bulk. Once the train pulls up they tred forward with the crowd and attempt to find some room in the busy carriage. It’s kind of surreal for Peter to see Tony, broad and confident, in this setting. Like taking a cartoon character off the screen and placing them in the real world. It’s actually kind of nice that they can do something like this, something normal, be a regular couple.

There are no seats available inside, not unusual at this hour, and the standing room is scarce. Noticing this, Tony stalks forward to a businessman parked on one of the seats, casting a shadow upon the well-dressed man. He clears his throat to get his attention.

“Yeah, I’m going to need you to move,” Tony orders, tugging one of the guys earphones out in order to be heard and thrusting a crumpled fifty dollar note at him. The man stares at Tony before shrugging, taking the note and vacating the seat to move down the carriage.

“Uhh,” Peter begins, cut off when Tony manoeuvres him to sit where the man had just been.

“Sit,” Tony directs, shuffling between Peter knees and smirking down at him, arm raised to clutch the railing above Peter’ head.

Okay, so maybe not like a normal, regular couple.

Peter ignores the surreptitious stares of the people around them and shakes his head up at Tony, smiling nonetheless. It’s kinda sweet actually, bribing of the common people aside. He’s glad that the bouquet gives him something to do with his hands, what with Tony’s crotch at face level and the prospect of make-up sex looming in the near future.

If the way Tony’s eyes darken when he locks his gaze with Peter is any indication, he knows exactly what Peter is thinking.

——

Thirty minutes and a short-walk later they arrive at Peter’s apartment complex.

Inside, Peter places the bouquet in the dollar store tupperware he’d bought to house raw spaghetti noodles, filling it up with water and placing it upon the crowded kitchen counter. He doesn’t own a vase, okay, but he thinks it's cute nonetheless. It's kitschy, charming, amongst his thrift store mugs and news articles and paraphernalia. 

Tony smiles when he sees it, crowding Peter against the kitchen counter, gripping his hips with his big hands and kissing Peter’s forehead.

Without thinking, his arms come around to wrap Tony’s middle in an embrace erring on the side of too tight, but Tony’s grunt is more amused than pained and Peter can’t really find it within himself to extend their distance.

“I’ve never seen your place,” Tony says, leaning in and not taking his attention off Peter, eyes tracking over his features. “Six months, that how long we’ve been doing this? That seems deliberate. Is it deliberate?”

“A little bit,” Peter admits, sinking into the hold, interlocking his fingers at the small of the billionaire’s back, bringing him in closer with the motion until their bodies are flush, chest to knee. “Sorry. It’s just, y’know. Not the Hilton.”

“The Parker is just fine,” Tony assures, kissing him sweetly. “But I could buy the Hilton for you and rename it, if you like.”

“No thanks.”

Peter snorts, disentangling from the older man to skin through his cupboards for his jar of cheap, granulated coffee, huffing to himself when he finds it right in front of his eyes. 

“Did I say something –-” Tony starts, the heat of his body retreating from Peter’s back. “You know what, I did. I see I fucked up somewhere, not unusual. C’mon, lay it on me. What did I say?”

“It’s just. You don’t - you don’t need to buy me anything,” Peter swallows, retrieving two clean mugs and the canister of sugar. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s enough for me, y’know? I don’t want you to be with me thinking that everything I have, or that I am, needs an upgrade.”

The kettle simmers, bubbling and whistling, pitch high as it reaches its crescendo, a shriek. The other man stays silent as Peter scoops the sugar in with the coffee granules, two for him, one for Tony, adding the boiling water. He murmurs a soft _thanks_ when Peter passes him the mug, blowing on it lightly before bringing it up to his lips.

A prolonged, pensive moment stretches between them, both men staring down at their cups silently.

“It’s not that I think you’re lacking,” Tony says after a moment, tapping the ceramic with his short, chewed fingernails. “I want you to hear me when I say that there’s _nothing_ about you I want to change, okay? Nothing. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Peter shrugs, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips.

“I just wanted to be good enough for you, y’know, by being me,” he settles back against the bench, tipping his head against the hanging cupboard and eyeing the man, the threads of his three-piece so out of place in Peter’s tiny apartment. “And before you try and jump to my defense, I know I’m good enough by myself. But I just need to feel like you're on my side when the rest of the world isn't.”

Tony smiles but it fades quickly.

"I'm on your side, baby, always _, always"_ he says lowly, slouching back against the counter, features drawn at the admission. “It's this habit I have. Throwing gifts and money at the people who I want to love me. It's not attractive, I'm aware.”

“I already love you,” Peter admits, kicking his foot out at Tony's. “I’ve seen your worst, so stop it. It’s weird. I don't want anything from you.”

The other man tilts his head, grimacing. "Well I want _everything_ for you. Not because of who you are - or who you're not. It's just who I am. I'd like to say I'll stop, but track records shows that it's unlikely."

"Okay," Peter concedes, smiling softly. "But if I do or don't accept something from you, you know it's not a reflection of you, right?"

That prompts a snort out of Tony. Setting his coffee down on the counter he cups Peter’s cheeks with his warm hands and leans in to kiss him gently, once, twice.

"We'll work on it."

——

They start working on it soon afterwards. They work on it with desperate kisses, hands clawing at each others clothes, disrobing themselves and each other, leaving a trail of fabric as they head towards the bedroom. Peter pulls at Tony's tie, guiding him until the tie loosens and falls to the ground. He wants to feel Tony's skin on his, doesn't want anything between their bodies. He's so stupid; as if he could he think the image of Tony spread against his sheets would be anything but art, as if their loving against the sheets would be anything but profound and heart-affirming.

Tony tries to say something between kisses, pulling back often to speak. “Remember when we were," - _kiss_ \- "watching Back To The Future," - _kiss_ \- "and you were like," - _kiss_ \- " _hey Tony, don’t you think the DeLoreans were so dope_?”

“Uhh, yeah?” Peter pushing him against his bedroom door, a little thrown by the non-sequitur.

“Yeah," Tony says, cupping his face and bringing their lips together, kissing Peter until he's breathless. "You’re really going to hate my Christmas present.”

Peter pulls back.

“ _Tony_.”

“I’m sorry! It’s fine, okay, relax. It’s under control. I’ll return it.”

“What -- how? How do you already have a Christmas gift ready? It’s April.”

Tony shrugs.

“Is that too early? I wanted to be prepared. I tried to buy out Jameson and Murdoch but they both laughed in my face, so. DeLorean."

Shaking his head, Peter’s only answer is meet Tony’s lips in another kiss.

——

Early the next morning, sunlight drifts through the gap in the curtain, yellow-grey filtering through the thin fabric draped across the windows.

Peter is already up, looking at the news, reading an article about climate change - something he knows he can't control. When he finishes, the news site offers an analysis on Spider-Man as suggested reading. He adamantly ignoring it in favour of a fluff piece on a community rallying to support a disadvantaged homeless man and his tiny, loyal Pomeranian.

Stirred by the light, Tony groans low in irritation, burrowing his face into Peter’s throat and huffing his displeasure. Pressed naked atop Peter, he wriggles until his nose is right above Peter’s collarbones, the little exhalations tickling his skin as he settles in to his new position.

“Shh,” Peter cards his fingers through the older mans bed hair, shielding Tony’s eyes from the light as best he can with his forearm as he peers at his phone screen. “Go back to sleep.”

Tony mumbles something into his neck.

“Hmm?” Peter queries.

“Forgot to say I love you too,” Tony manages, shifting to get more comfortable. "My bad."

Peter looks away from his phone to smile down at him, petting the silky strands. “S’okay. I knew you’d do it in your own time.”

In his hand his phone vibrates. On his mail app there's a new email from _admin@octaviusindustries_ that has him very curious. He almost goes to open it, but, glancing down at the man in his arms, Peter figures there's time to read it later.

Giving his attention to his own cuddly creature, Peter wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders and sighs softly into the nest of hair tickling his chin. With their combined heat and the comforting weight on his chest, it’s easy to fall back into a languid drowsiness.

“You’re going to be late, sweetheart,” Tony advises without admonition, smacking his lips sleepily.

“Alarms set,” Peter says, squeezing him tighter. “We’re good.”


End file.
